


Huerta Memorial

by BlackjackKent



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: Gen, Injury, Love Triangles, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-11
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2017-12-08 03:48:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 21,361
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/756698
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BlackjackKent/pseuds/BlackjackKent
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <em>"The human biotic in intensive care...</em>
  <br/>
  <em>We have spoken. He was holding out hope that a woman would visit him...</em>
  <br/>
  <em>Your enemies may try to finish him off here. I will look out for him."</em>
</p>
<p> </p>
<p>Some missing scenes from Mass Effect 3 -- how Thane and Kaidan, both with memories of their love for Shepard, handled their time in adjacent rooms in the Citadel's best hospital.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Thane

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thane sees the arrival of a newcomer to Huerta.

Thane's private room in Huerta Memorial Hospital is small but comfortable. A single bed, a desk, copious medical equipment. He demands no more, and would take no more if it were offered, weighing it against the infinitely greater needs of the growing influx of Citadel arrivals newly torn from their homes. This rectangular space offers him quiet and room to meditate and it is enough. He will die in it, one day soon. But not today.

Today his lungs are still drawing breath. It is, to be sure, a weak and raspy approximation of what it used to be, but he has grown used to it. The occasional struggle for a deep enough gasp of oxygen is unpleasant, but no longer unexpected. The deep animal panic has been replaced by resignation and reflection.

He is lonely. He has Kolyat, of course, but lately his son's work with Commander Bailey has taken him for long periods into the Wards, assisting drell and hanar refugees. Thane is proud of what the boy is accomplishing, but it has meant the hospital is a lonelier place between his more infrequent visits. It has meant more time to think.

To remember...

_Fingers warm against his skin, hot flesh in the cabin’s chill. Trembling rush of two hearts beating against each other. The soft rasp of cloth under moving bodies. Black hair and a strong jaw and green eyes piercing with pity and love. "Thane...be alive with me tonight."_

He has not heard anything from Shepard. She has not answered any of his messages, and he has no reason to believe any of them made it to her at all during her incarceration. So he tells himself, at least, but of course there is the nagging fear that she _did_ receive them and did not care to respond or, worse, that she was lost in the Reaper attack on Earth. But he does not believe it, not really. 

He cannot allow himself to believe it. Even in her absence, he depends on her -- on the memory of her -- to keep him from the fear and despair that once threatened to swamp him, when he awoke from long sleep on the Normandy and found so few days left to him.

_Kalihira, protect her in whatever dark way she walks..._

In between meditation and memory, he keeps busy enough. He reads a great deal, exercises when the doctors and his lungs conspire to allow for it. He prays, sleeps, eats. Kolyat has walked with him on long journeys deep through the bowels of the Citadel, the younger drell listening attentively as the elder recounts nights spent in hiding here, an old friend first encountered there. He skirts past the tales of his kills, most days. He knows Kolyat wonders, even if he does not ask.

_Perhaps he will visit today_ , the dying man thinks hopefully, smoothing the cover of his bed absently with one hand as he turns to step out of his small room, and into the corridor beyond.

He is greeted, to his surprise, with chaos.

* * *

Huerta Memorial is the largest medical facility on the Citadel, and Thane has never seen it operate with anything other than cool efficiency. In this moment, however, there is a wildness in the air; a babble of voices from the entry lobby echoes down the metal hallways, and several doctors -- two salarians, an asari, and a human -- race past him towards the decontamination passageway.

_A battle?_ he wonders. Has the war come to the Citadel so soon? No. There would have been panic. Even as he stands there he sees the pattern emerging in the movement to and fro, and though hasty, it is purposeful. 

Soon enough the reason is clear. The room next to his is being prepared for the arrival of a new patient who is being rushed to surgery. Judging by the level of tension, it is someone important -- or someone very close to death, which in the eyes of a doctor is the same thing.

Curiosity stirs in him, an emotion that has lain dormant beneath the weight of the others for many months. The noise draws him, pulls him along the crowded hallway, past beds of the healing and dying and dead, until he passes out into the sunlit atrium, where the elevator door is just sliding open.

Six doctors, arranged like pallbearers around a heavy gurney, emerge and are immediately swarmed by the orderlies who have leapt into the frenzy of preparation. Thane moves gracefully aside to allow them to pass, craning his neck as they go by in an attempt to see the arrival who has caused such tumult. 

Whoever he is, he is human, but Thane doesn’t recognize him among his Citadel acquaintance. He’s been horribly beaten, or involved in some sort of accident. Almost every visible inch of his skin is bruised, and where it is not, it is so pale with bloodloss as to be almost white. Thane can see the jagged edge of a broken bone poking through the skin of his forearm. His eyes are closed, but he is not dead. Thane has seen enough death to know that for certain.

Then the man is gone. The doctors obscure him from view and the confusion of voices recedes with him back towards the newly prepared room. Thane considers following, but remains in the atrium. His accustomed chair by the window onto the Presidium is empty and he has much, as always, to think about.

“Sere Nuara?” 

Halfway across the atrium, Thane halts at the sound of the friendly voice calling his assumed name. “Doctor Michel.” He inclines his head at her in greeting. “You are well this morning, I hope?”

She smiles pleasantly. The two of them have talked occasionally during his time in Huerta, and he has found her unfailingly good-humored, even in light of the clouds gathering on the horizon of Citadel existence. “I am, sere. And you? You’re up early this morning.”

He frowns. The truth is he tends to lose track of time in this world of artificial sunlight. He sleeps when his body demands rest and wakes when it is sated, and thinks no more of it. “I am well. My breathing is easier today.”

“Ah. Doctor Silverman will be pleased to hear it. The new course of treatment was his idea,” she says lightly. “Your son stopped by during the night to say he will visit this evening if you have no other plans.”

“I do not.” Kolyat always asks, respectful of his father’s wishes, but the truth is Thane never has any other plans. “Doctor...may I ask you a question?”

“Of course.” She looks at him expectantly.

“Who was that man that was just taken in to surgery?”

She looks past him in the direction of the door to the inner facility. “Oh, him? That was Kaidan Alenko, of the Alliance Navy.”

The name is familiar. Where has he heard it? “Alenko?”

“Yes. He was injured on a mission with the Normandy -- very gravely injured, as you saw.” She smiles faintly. “We do our best for all our patients, obviously, but as you can see, everyone is particularly eager to lend a hand when it would be a favor to Commander Shepard.”

He has forgotten how his heart could leap in his chest at the sound of her name, even spoken in such an offhand way by this woman who could not possibly understand its significance to him. A great tingle of emotion, too complex to describe, washes over him. She is all right, alive. She is no longer incarcerated. She is on the Normandy. She is... “Here?” he asks, and it emerges strangled. “She is-- Commander Shepard is here?”

Michel looks at him oddly. “Yes. She is drumming up support for the war effort with the Council.”

_Oh, siha...would they send you all the way out here, when I know you would want to fight for your homeworld?_  “Of course,” he says with a slow nod, as much to himself as to the doctor. “And this...Alenko. He is her friend?”

Michel shakes her head uncertainly. “Rumor has been putting about all sorts of things on that front. Some would have you believe they were quite steamy at one time, though Karin Chakwas assures me Kaidan and the Commander had a falling-out over her Cerberus involvement and haven’t spoken since.”

“Steamy.” He doesn’t have to ask what the euphemism means, and he takes a moment in silence to examine the small flame of jealousy this knowledge brings along with it. Then he extinguishes it ruthlessly. Shepard is his _siha_ , the remaining love of his life, but he does not own her. His wings have been clipped, and she deserves to be able to soar. “I see.”

She’s barely paying attention to him, her mind on the injured man on the gurney. “I hope he pulls through. I only met him once or twice, but he seemed a decent man. And this is a time when the Alliance needs decent men.”

He mumbles some vague words of assent and she drifts off, leaving him again alone with his thoughts. This new arrival has shaken him down to his soul, relieving a fear he had not known was weighing on him, and replacing it with a hundred other concerns. Chief of them now, though, is the state of that man currently under the surgeon’s knife. Who is he? What is he to Shepard?

_And who does that make him to me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First chapter! Not sure how long a fic this is going to be; I have at least a couple of scenes in mind. Next up is going to be from Kaidan's point of view I think (though I really like writing in Thane's voice).
> 
> Constructive criticism much appreciated. :) Thanks for reading!


	2. Kaidan

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaidan's recovering slowly -- and has an unwelcome visitor.

The deep numb silence of the drugs is starting to wear off, and there are times when Kaidan feels fully awake and conscious for whole hours at a time. But it's a slow process, and for much more of the time he is in a sort of woozy stupor of medication, and has a great deal of time to take out his thoughts and look at them.

The doctors say he's recovering far better than they ever expected, which is a double-edged comment if he’s ever heard one. The subtext, though they try to hide it, is that by all rights he should have died, which to be honest doesn't surprise him much. That Cerberus mech rearranged his insides thoroughly, and no mistake.

But he is alive, nevertheless, and Huerta is treating him well. In happier days he imagines this place would probably be the lap of luxury; as it is, the hospital is packed to the gills with war-battered soldiers and frightened civilians, and his "private room" is basically a closet with a bed. But it's clean and warm and fairly quiet, and the doctors are kind, even as they poke and prod in places he was never meant to be poked. And much of the time, the pain meds keep him too zonked out of it to really notice much of anything anyway.

So he drifts from hour to hour, day to day in a sort of in-between place, thinking about the war, the mission, the pain as it ebbs and flows. And Shepard, of course. She is a constant question behind every thought of the future, one that he doesn’t know the answer to. 

They told him she came to see him while he was still unconscious. To be honest, he's glad he missed it. He doesn't know what the hell he'd have said. He doesn't know if too much time has passed to rebuild the bridge they burned. And he doesn't know if he is a fool for even considering it.

He refuses to ask himself if he still cares for her. But of course he knows the answer.

His eyes drift half open at the bustling noise of one of the nurses adjusting his IV. "Mmm...snack time?" he mumbles.

"The finest nutritional supplements this side of Purgatory," she answers cheerfully. And he laughs, because it doesn’t occur to him that she means the club down in the Wards, and it makes perfect sense to him that nutro slop mixed with knockout drops and served through a tube _would_ be the food they'd serve in hell.

He can already feel the renewed fuzziness at the corners of his mind, but he shifts restlessly. "Much longer, y'think? Want t'...walk around..."

He always asks, and they always say the same thing. "We'll see how the next round of tests look." And of course, with him too weak to roll over, there's not much he can say back. So he lets his head loll forward in lieu of a nod, and as he does, he sees the face at the door again.

This is the third or fourth time he's spotted the man watching him, and he's always gone before Kaidan can try to place his face -- a flash of lime green skin and deep black eyes, whirling away into the ever-moving crowd of the corridor. He always appears in these moments where Kaidan hangs between sleeping and waking, doubting his own senses. And yet there is something potent in the glimpses Kaidan catches of him, an intensity that burns the moments in his memory through the encroaching unconsciousness.

"Who's that drell?" he slurs as the nurse busies herself with adjusting the sheets of his bed.

“Who? Oh, in the room next door? Tannor Nuara. He’s one of our permanent residents,” she says, smiling absently.

“What does he...what does...” Kaidan tries, but the drugs are taking over, and he drifts back into oblivion with the question on his lips. _What does he want with me?_

* * *

 

When he next wakes up, the drell is sitting by his bedside.

He is still as a statue and for a moment Kaidan thinks he is asleep, but his great dark eyes are open, staring intently forward through Kaidan and into the floor, as if lost in some trance or deep meditation. His hands are folded neatly in his lap, and only the slow rise and fall of his shoulders in breath gives any indication of life about him. In the silence of the room, Kaidan can hear a gentle rasping catch in each inhale and exhale.

“Hey,” he says, or tries to, his tongue stumbling sleepily over the words. The drell does not respond, in fact does not seem to have heard him at all. Kaidan tries again, louder this time. “Hey!”

The black eyes turn towards him, blinking languidly, and then the drell shakes himself, like a dog that has been underwater coming back to dry land. “Sere Alenko,” he says in a tone of greeting, inclining his head.

“Uh...yeah. That’s me,” Kaidan answers blearily, watching the man’s movements through half-closed eyes. “What do you want?”

“I came to see you,” the drell answers. His voice is low and resonant, every word precisely enunciated. He shifts on the chair and Kaidan can see the power in his slim, erect bearing, ramrod-straight. “I wished to form my own opinion of you.”

Kaidan grunts, puzzled. “Why? Who...who’re you? They said your name was...Nuara...”

“That is the name under which I stay here.”

Instinctively Kaidan feels his manner changing, turning more guarded to this stranger at his side. “And your real one?”

For a long moment the drell does not answer. Then he stands in a lithe, smooth movement and crosses the foot of Kaidan’s bed to the window, where he looks out at the falling water of the Presidium fountains. “I am Thane Krios.”

 _Oh, shit._ “Krios...” Kaidan stirs feebly -- as if he had enough strength to run more than a few feet. 

He knows that name. It was among the dossiers of the Normandy crew taken during Shepard’s questioning and incarceration, though the man himself had left the ship and disappeared before he could be apprehended. He’s a hanar-trained mercenary, dangerous with a submachine gun and sudden death with a sniper. He’s an assassin. And Kaidan does not know whose pay he is in now.

“Here to kill me?” he asks, forcing his eyes to open all the way, to watch Krios with all the attention he can muster.

But Krios just shakes his head, with a smile weighed heavily with sadness. “No.”

“Oh.” _Best news I’ve had all day._ “Then what?”

 “I was curious,” Krios says matter-of-factly, turning to face Kaidan, so that he is framed by the warm yellow glow of the light outside. “I have heard we have things in common, you and I.”

“Things?” Kaidan makes an experimental effort to push himself up on his elbows, but his muscles protest angrily and his head swims nauseatingly as he sags back against the pillows. He frowns with a surge of anger at his own helplessness. “What kind of things?”

Those deep black eyes meet Kaidan’s with an unreadable, intent gaze. “We have both loved Commander Shepard.”

The statement is so abrupt, so out of left field, that for a moment Kaidan can only stare at him. _So it’s true, then._ He hadn’t wanted to believe the gossip that came along with the other intel slowly drifting back to Alliance HQ. He’d told himself Shepard might work with Cerberus recruits, but _love_ one of them? He hadn’t wanted to believe that she’d recovered so easily from turning her back on the Alliance. On him. 

But here is Krios, implacable, dispassionate, telling him it is true, and the wave of jealousy that this knowledge brings with it makes him dizzy. The drell assassin watches him silently, waiting for a response, but all Kaidan can get out is a slurred, angry, “I don’t see how that’s any of your damn business.”

“It is as much mine as anyone’s,” Krios answers calmly. “Her well-being is of great importance to me.” 

Kaidan scowls, hearing an accusation in those words that stings. Of course he cares about Shepard’s well-being too -- more than Krios can possibly know. He was with her from the beginning. She made him the soldier he is today, and she cared about him as he cared about her, a person worth fighting for in a dark, bleak galaxy.

Or he’d thought she did. But then he lost her. She died, disappeared, reappeared among the Alliance’s enemies. And as much as he loved her, he turned away, he held to his _duty_. She went where he couldn’t follow, and Krios was there to step into the void. He has missed her so much, but she had no trouble moving on.

In a sense, Krios won, and now is here to throw that victory in Kaidan’s face, to kick him when he is already down. “If you’ve...come to gloat...you’re too little too late, pal,” he murmurs bitterly. “She hasn’t looked my way for a good long time.”

Krios shakes his head once. “Nor mine -- nor anyone’s, I think. Her eyes are her own, and too often blinded by hardship and heavy burdens.” Again, that faint sad smile. “I have left only the hope that she one day again turns them on something worthwhile.”

“Something like you?” Kaidan tries to lift his head, but his stomach turns with the movement and he falls back with a groan. He is weak and exhausted and drug-riddled, and he can’t get his head clear enough to answer this strange, sad stranger who in this moment seems to represent everything he has lost. “Get the hell out. Should call...C-Sec...’lliance brass are lookin’ for you, y’know...”

“I know,” Krios answers, unruffled. He steps away from the window, moving to Kaidan’s side, staring down at him. His voice thrums with quiet intensity, and Kaidan feels long thin fingers close with surprising gentleness around the bruised muscle of his upper arm. “Answer my question, and I will go. Do you still love her?”

Kaidan takes a ragged breath that catches like a sob in his throat as Krios asks the question he has refused to ask himself. _I do. Of course I do. I never stopped. But we can’t just go back to the way things were..._ “Why do you care?” he whispers.

Krios’s answer slides with him back into the dark. 

“ _Because someone should..._ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeesh...this chapter was a lot harder than the previous one; I'll probably edit it more at some point, but I wanted to get through it because the chapters that come after it are a lot clearer in my mind and I wanted to get to them.
> 
> My hope is that the setup here makes some sense (though it will do more once it fits in with the arc of what's coming after it), but of course any suggestions are definitely welcome.


	3. Angel of Arashu

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shepard finds Thane in Huerta, and Thane knows it may be for the last time.

_Whfff. Whfff._

Thane's fists whip through the air, just hard enough to sting as his knuckles rap the shining glass of the atrium windows. He likes the sting. It gives him the feeling of combat even in so limited an exercise. And, on a more morbid level, it somewhat counterbalances the numbness slowly fomenting in his fingertips from growing oxygen deprivation.

_Throat. Solar plexus. Right hook. Left hook._ It all still comes as smoothly to him as thought, and leaves him free to listen idly to the gossip and conversation around him.

The war is growing worse. Palaven is being slowly consumed -- reports vary on the exact mechanisms of the horror but none dispute its effect. Earth’s resistance is determined, colorful, and desperate, but ultimately powerless. Other, less influential worlds are falling alone without a whisper. He has been trying to get word of the state of things on Kahje, but has heard little. He has limited hope.

His one comfort has been that it is easy to get news of Shepard, as her activities are the biggest thing the news outlets have to hang onto. Not that the news has been detailed; her last visit to Huerta, on the heels of Alenko’s arrival, was so hurried that he missed her altogether, and it is difficult to get real information about the war on the Citadel, which seems to have its eyes determinedly closed to reality as long as it can manage it. But even the occasional brief glimpse of _Eshwara ru’Tanagh_ or _Battlespace_ is enough to tell him what he really needs to know -- that Shepard is alive and fighting.

She was always a beautiful fighter...

_The flashing glint of Haestrom’s fiery sun on the barrel of an Alliance assault rifle. Gold-tinged armor on the dim Citadel catwalks as she leaps after Kolyat. The electronic hiss of an omniblade as she sinks it into a husk’s flesh and withdraws, a dancer cloaked in brown shadows and blood._

_...the soft step of a boot heel amid the hum of the Normandy’s life support...a soft intake of breath, heavy with sadness..._

He shakes his head sharply. The _tu-fira_ has him deeply today, so deeply that he could have sworn on his life she is really standing behind him. He turns, expecting some doctor with a light, purposeful step he could have mistaken for--

He can’t even complete the thought in his own mind. It is her. His breath catches painfully in his tight throat as he takes in the reality of her. The green eyes, piercing and cool and strained. The taut jaw and delicate features marred by deep, luminescent scarring. The squared shoulders, straight back, military bearing...beautiful in every inch, in every line and curve, in that fierce solidity that reassures silently even as it inspires.

_She looks so tired._ The thought comes unbidden, and yet it is true. Her eyes are sunken deep in her face, circled with deep shadows and glittering with a desperate intensity. He can see the ever-so-faint sway of the effort required to stand upright. And she is examining him with the same eager yearning that he knows is in his own eyes, like a starving creature falling upon a plate of long-denied food. The sense of loneliness that hangs between them is palpable.

“Siha,” he says finally. His voice is low and thick with emotion. He has played this meeting over in his mind so many times, and yet he finds it hard to think clearly in the moment. _He has missed her so much._ “I...heard Earth was under attack. I didn’t know you’d made it out.” So many times since her escape he has heard her name, but all he can think to speak of is those frightening first few weeks when he did not know if she was dead or alive. He barely knows what he is saying, really, which is just as well because it is clear she isn’t listening.

She steps forward, reaches a hand out cautiously as if in doubt of his response. “Thane,” she says softly, and he is both glad and sorry to hear her voice too catch on his name. She sounds as exhausted as she looks, and yet her lips turn just the slightest bit upwards. It means as much to him as a radiant grin would on any other woman. “It’s been too long.” Her fingers catch his finally, and she squeezes his hand tightly as if it is a life preserver thrown to her amid a raging storm. Her palms are hot and dry, almost feverish. He can feel the heavy thud of her pulse as his thumb brushes her wrist. “I was...beginning to think I’d never see you again.”

He says nothing for a long moment, just looks down at their hands intertwined together, trying to get his thoughts in order. He has been planning for some time how he would handle these moments, and selfishly had only considered his own sacrifice. Is he making the wrong decision? She looks as strong as ever, but that strength hangs on the balance of a knife’s edge. Kick the wrong support, and it will crumble with the rest of the galaxy.

And yet, with his lungs betraying him in greater degree day by day, what else can he do but set her free? She deserves a face she can look to without fear or pain, arms that will shelter her without faltering. And his arms will not do the job for much longer, no matter how he wills them to.

He will die. And the least he owes to her is to ensure he does not drag her with him.

He steps back from her, his hands falling to his side as if weighted with lead. The chill that creeps into his oxygen-starved skin as her body heat leaves him is almost frightening. “I sent a few messages while you were incarcerated,” he says quietly. “But I suspect they never got past the guards. What are you doing here?”

Of course he knows. It is not the answer that concerns him, but the manner of it.

Her eyes drop from his, then rise again. “Visiting a...friend, Kaidan,” she says, so steadily that he knows it requires a great effort. “He got hurt protecting me.”

He nods noncommittally. “The human biotic in intensive care.” His throat seizes abruptly around an ill-timed cough and he raises a hand as if to somehow mask it from her. The lines of her face deepen with concern, and he shakes his head, goes on as if nothing had happened, forcing the air into his lungs to continue. He refuses to let her of all people see his true weakness, or his humiliation at it.

“I saw the marks of an implant,” he goes on. “We have...spoken.” _To a degree, at least. I question whether he even remembers the conversation. And if he does, he certainly does not look on it with kindness._ “He was holding out hope that a woman would visit him.”

Alenko had, of course, said nothing of the sort. Even when Thane asked about Shepard directly, he spoke of her with bitterness rather than optimism. But Alenko’s feelings do not, at this moment, concern him. It is the carefully controlled flicker of an eager smile across Shepard’s face that he wishes to observe. Whether Alenko wished Shepard to be here is irrelevant, because Shepard hoped that Alenko wished it. That is what matters.

He speaks with studied casualness, as if he observed nothing. “Is there something I should know about you two?”

She flinches just slightly, turns away. But he can read her body language. His life has been a series of honed talent in observation and detail. Besides, he has replayed ever memory of their time together so often in his mind that he knows every gesture with as much familiarity as he knows his own. So the slight slump of her shoulders tells him a great deal. The weight of the war is pressing on her, and Alenko is part of that weight. An acute part.

“We were together for a while before the first Normandy was destroyed,” she says. He wonders if she realizes how her voice vibrates with emotion as she speaks. He wonders if she considered hiding the truth from him, and values that she respected him enough not to lie.

“And grew apart, I gather,” he says slowly, doing her the same credit by assuming that she has not lied to either of them, that her feelings for both, at least in the moment, were real. Her head comes up, she turns slightly towards him. And the pain in her eyes strikes him like a blow. She looks worn and sad, and she shrugs with an uncertainty he has never seen in her before. He can see only two explanations for it. Either they did grow apart, and it hurts her and she regrets it, or they did not, and she feels torn, pulled in more directions than she can move at once.

Either way, he has his answer. Alenko is still important to her. “Your enemies may try to finish him off here,” he says firmly, straightening with an attempt at a reassuring gaze. “I will look out for him.”

She shifts to look at him fully, and her smile grows more relaxed, tinged with relief. “I appreciate it, Thane.”

He smiles sadly. “I am near the end of my life. It is a good time to be generous.” She does not realize, of course, the gift he is giving her -- as it should be. He wishes to alleviate what guilt she may feel in searching for support in these dark days, and for her to realize that he does so consciously would defeat the purpose. And yet...he hopes, too, that she understands the love he bears her, that she knows what it costs him to put aside his jealousy and wish only for her happiness.

“I have only a few loves left,” he says haltingly, his eyes locking with hers. “And you are one of the last. Let me do what I can for you.”

He sees her take the sudden step forward. And he knows he should not let her, but then she is pressed against him and their lips are together, in a moment of impulsivity that is as much unlike her as it is unlike himself. It sends a shock through him; the taste of her and the _tu-fira_ in his mind combine to make him feel as if every moment they have ever spent together is all crashing in on him at once. His breath catches and he sways against her, his fingers digging into the small of her back for support.

Then the moment passes. She steps away, takes a deep breath, watches his response. _We should not have done that_ , he thinks, and he knows she is thinking it too. _It only prolongs the inevitable._ But he smiles, trying to make light of it, even as his lungs struggle to recover the wind her touch knocked out of him.

“Well, I see you want to make up for lost time,” he says teasingly. And she does smile, and he feels better after that. “I should warn you,” he goes on more seriously, “that you may not want your final memories of me to be in this hospital. Kepral’s Syndrome is...” He pauses, not sure how to describe it even after all these months. “...not kind.”

It’s an understatement, and he’s sure she knows it. Quickly -- though without any trace of patronization or disappointment -- she moves to a chair, silently inviting him to do so as well. He does so gratefully, not realizing until he sits down how hard it had become to stay on his feet.

She is watching him with a new look now, an expression of concern and pity. “Are you in a lot of pain?” she asks quietly.

He considers his answer. Generally, it is only Kolyat to whom he describes the slow process of the disease’s damage, and it is easy habit to downplay his symptoms for his son’s benefit. But Shepard will know if he tries to bury the reality of it. He nods. “At times. The oxygen transfer proteins don’t form correctly. Your human equivalent would be hemoglobin. As a result, my blood is low in oxygen.” He flexes the fingers of one hand gently. “No matter how much I breathe in, I get tingling, numbness. And that is the best of it. As for my brain, I cannot track the damage. I just experience dizziness from time to time.”

She nods, her expression unreadable. “Do you know how much time you have left?”

He shrugs. “I’ve been to several doctors. My favorite gave me three months to live, nine months ago.” She looks stricken; clearly she had not realized how close he was to the end. He hastens to answer the look, even though she does not voice it. “It’s freeing to find no requirements placed on me. No responsibilities, no fears.” He smiles slightly, willing her to understand. She is the last loose end. Were her happiness assured, he would accept Kalihira’s embrace without fear. “It is a good end to a life.”

She frowns, unsatisfied, and shifts restlessly. “I’m back on the Normandy, on an important mission. I sure could use you.”

Even as she says it, he knows she already recognizes the answer. But he just shakes his head regretfully. “I would not be as I was before. I need daily medical attention.” He cocks his head with a knowing look. “And if I know you, you will want to fight the Reapers somehow. You need the best at your side, and I am not at mine.”

She laughs sharply, a harsh sound in the back of her throat. “You don’t have to wrestle down krogan and break their necks. I’m sure we can find you lighter work.”

_But really, siha...what use would I be to you, if not at your side? My body’s work is death, and I am finished with it. My soul has only the sea left._ “I am at peace with what I’ve done in my life, Shepard. There comes a time when one must rest from war and conflict. It is not your time, but it is mine.”

She wants to protest. He can see her struggle with it. She has fought against inevitable ends for the whole time he has known her. Why should this be any different? But with a visible effort, she steps back. She leaves the choice to him, though he cannot guess what it costs her to stay out of the fight. And the love in her eyes makes him dizzy with gratitude at what she has given back to him in this time before his death.

“I wish the best for you, Thane,” she says. And her voice trembles, though she tries to hide it.

She stands, and he puts out a hand to stop her before she can turn away. He has more to say, last things that must be said, for they are both feeling the finality of this conversation now. “I think of us often, siha,” he says, his gaze intent and purposeful. She stops in her tracks, turning back to look at him expectantly. “But...” he goes on, having to force the words out of himself. “We always knew it would come to an end.”

He turns in his chair, reaching out a hand so his fingertips just brush against her sleeve. “ _Live well in the time you have_ ,” he whispers. “Perhaps we will see each other again.”

She understands, now. He knows she does. She sees that he is letting her go, releasing whatever hold he had on her. For a brief, heart-stopping moment, she flares with stung pride as if she thinks he is trying to abandon her. Then her eyes go to the doorway to intensive care, and then back to him, and then all the tension goes out of her like a deflated balloon.

Yes, she understands. And she smiles with a deep, soul-shivering gratitude. Unable to speak, she just nods and turns away, leaving him sitting in the atrium of the hospital where he will die. Perhaps he has just seen her for the last time, he reflects, and he rides the pain of that realization until it dissipates into a dull ache. Then he turns back to the view of the Presidium, takes a deep, tight breath, and nods. He is content with what has passed.

_Fly free, angel of Arashu. Know that I carry you with me in my memory always. Fight as you were born to fight. And be happy._

He stands and goes to inquire with the nearest doctor about Alenko’s condition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woohoo, 'nother chapter up. I've gotten some very nice responses to the first couple; thanks so much to everyone who's read so far.
> 
> This sort of reads like an ending, so don't get the wrong impression -- it's not finished. I've got at least three scenes still in mind; maybe more.
> 
> As always, constructive criticism appreciated. :)


	4. Up and About

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaidan, slowly recovering from his Mars injuries, accompanies Thane on a walk through the Citadel.

Kaidan leans heavily against the wall near the Huerta elevator and reaches down to squeeze his fingers under one of his leg braces, searching out an elusive itch at the back of his thigh. "These things are driving me nuts," he comments to Chloe Michel. "How long until I get them off?"

"Not long, assuming the medigel does its job," she answers cheerfully. "You're progressing very rapidly. With your physical therapy...a week? Perhaps two? We will have to see--"

"--what the next round of tests say. Yeah, I know." Kaidan shakes his head. Michel means well, but he's going stir crazy in here even with some limited mobility; Huerta's bland walls and ever-shifting populace of the dead and dying hold only so much interest for him. And his thoughts...well, his thoughts are the sort that would usually have him hitting the gym hard to bury them for a while under sweat and exertion. And given that’s not an option right now, those thoughts are starting to chase themselves round in circles.

There’s the ongoing strain of watching the war at arm’s length, of course, and wondering what’s happened to his students, who all seem to have gone to ground; he refuses to contemplate the alternate possibility. And then Udina's offer, which was delivered to him several days ago, is overwhelming. To follow in Shepard's footsteps, to be a Spectre? He can hardly process the idea, or rationalize the idea that he may have earned it. 

And then Shepard's arrival just afterwards -- those familiar, sad eyes staring down at him in his bed, with a concern that made his heart stop for a moment -- has his usual collected approach to life in a complete tailspin.

They'd talked, for a short bit. She wanted to know the usual things -- how he was, whether he would be back to action. She'd told him a little of her activities since his injury, though not much more than he's already heard from the newsvids.

And to his surprise, she'd acknowledged Krios's existence, and the drell’s importance in her life. He'd half-expected her to try to deny it, to hide it from him or pretend it never happened. Or he'd expected her to flaunt it in his face, unremorseful. Shepard had never, that he could recall, apologized for a decision once made -- personal or professional.

But instead, when he asked about the drell assassin, she just put her head in her hands, exhausted, and admitted it flatly, with neither pride nor guilt. She told him she was sorry, that she hadn't meant to hurt him. That he’d seemed far away, unreachable.

And god damn it, he'd barely known what he was saying in response. Before he could even register his own intention to speak, he’d found himself telling her everything he’d barely been willing to articulate to himself, powered half by jealousy, half by regret. How he still cared, and hadn’t forgotten her, and wanted to make things right between them, to learn to trust her, to find their friendship again despite how she’d abandoned him for her Cerberus team.

“For me...there isn’t anyone else,” he’d said, and she only looked at him silently for a while, her gaze guarded and unsure.

When she left, he’d eloquently cursed himself for a fool. _Pull it together, Alenko. She’s already proved more than adequately that she doesn’t need_ you.

But that hasn’t stopped him from going over and over the conversation in his mind. With nothing to divert him, it is easy for single thoughts to take over and run themselves ragged in his head. He almost misses the constant distracting pain of his bed-ridden early recovery.

“Damn this itch,” he says aloud, jarred from his own thoughts as he scrapes his knuckles on a rough edge of the padded metal frame encasing his leg. “Worse than armor. Any chance they could just give me some good old Rosenkov greaves instead?”

Michel chuckles. “I doubt it. We doctors are very attached to our own toys.”

“Bah. You never let me have anything fun,” he says, managing a good-natured grin. “You’d think I could at least--”

“Doctor Michel.”

The new voice in the conversation is sharp, deep, and unexpected. Kaidan’s head snaps around, but he doesn’t have to see the speaker to know who it is.

_Krios._

It’s been some time since they last spoke, and Kaidan wasn’t really properly attentive to the conversation at the time, but he could swear the drell looks thinner. His eyes are sunken deeper in his face, black holes against the pale green of his skin. He looks weary, though his posture is still firm.

"Tannor." Michel greets Krios warmly, with a pleasant smile that tells Kaidan easily that she must not know the other man's real identity. "How are you this morning?"

"I am well, thank you -- as far as I may use the term at this stage," Krios answers gravely. "Sere Alenko--" He makes a casual dip of the head in Kaidan's direction. "It is good to see you up and about."

"Uh...thanks," Kaidan answers, shifting awkwardly in his braces. Krios waits, seemingly expecting some kind of pleasantry in return, but none is forthcoming. Kaidan just watches him guardedly, like a rabbit watching a circling hawk. _What's your game, assassin?_

The awkward pause finally breaks as Dr. Michel steps smoothly into the conversational space. "Where are you walking today, sere? The Presidium again?"

Krios shakes his head. "Not today. I mean to go to the Wards.” He pauses, then gives Kaidan a sideways look. “And I had thought to inquire whether Sere Alenko might accompany me."

Kaidan blinks. "What?"

“A gift of good faith, if you will,” Krios says with the slightest hint of a smile. “I have no doubt your restlessness is growing in proportion with your strength. And we have...much to talk about, I believe.”

Dr. Michel has the discretion not to inquire what he means by this, but she does look concerned all the same, eyeing her two patients appraisingly. “A well-meant gesture, I am sure, Sere -- but neither of you is in any condition to help the other. And the Wards are a difficult place.” She knows this all too well, as Kaidan has reason to understand, and it shows in her face.

Krios shakes his head. “My son will be with us.” He gestures behind him at a younger drell who has been lurking on the other side of a small medical gurney near them. The boy looks like he might be twenty-three or twenty-four in human years, strong-built and and the resemblance to Krios is obvious, though where the older drell tends towards stoic seriousness, the young one has an unmistakable air of restrained, undirected anger about him. A hard young man, Kaidan can tell immediately, and a dangerous one -- but dangerous to who, he doesn’t know.

Dr. Michel looks at the boy and smiles familiarly. “Kolyat, it is good to see you. You are willing to keep an eye on both of them?” Kolyat nods silently, and Michel puffs out a sharp breath, shrugging as if washing her hands of the business. “Very well. Enjoy your walk, Major; you _have_ certainly earned a break from our walls. Kolyat...if either of them show signs of weakening, you know how to contact me.”

“We will be fine,” Krios says firmly, and walks into the elevator without waiting to see if Kaidan follows.

* * *

Krios is silent for a long while as they move through the bowels of the enormous station. Free of the confines of the hospital, he moves like a shadow, descending into narrow corridors and maintenance tunnels, his green and black silhouette melding and merging with the gloom of the passageways.

His movements are lithe, unbroken by hesitation or deliberation, though he pauses often to catch his breath and to wait for Kaidan, who follows awkwardly behind, clinging to the bulkheads for support against the weakness of his braced legs. The drell seems almost not to perceive his human companion’s slow progress, but Kaidan does notice he always avoids the ladders and stooped ducting in favor of a ramp or elevator further on. He does not know where they are going, but Krios is at least making sure his battered body will be able to get there.

Krios’ son follows at a distance, attentive and somber. At first Kaidan fears a trap, being taken out from behind, but it quickly becomes obvious that Kolyat has little or no interest in the Alliance officer. His intense eyes follow only his father’s movements, and in the shifting light of the corridors, Kaidan sometimes sees disdain in that gaze, sometimes concern, and sometimes admiration, even worship. The word _conflicted_ imbues every inch of the boy. 

Kaidan’s mistrust slowly starts to evaporate as their journey continues with no sign of an unpleasant surprise. He tries a few times to break the tense silence, make a little small talk and learn what’s going on, but his success is limited. Krios seems distracted, and despite his limber motion, his voice -- when he does speak -- sounds strained.

“I hear Chora’s Den never recovered from the Battle of the Citadel. Too much damage.”

“Yes.”

“Too bad. It was a popular place a few years ago.”

“It was.”

“You ever go there?”

“No.”

As near as he can figure, they are heading down to the very low decks, near Zakera Ward. Kaidan has never been down this way (indeed, one could live one’s whole life and never see the _whole_ Citadel) but it is clear Krios has. He moves like one treading old stomping grounds, ones which hold memories not always positive.

Eventually they press through a doorway and Kaidan finds himself on a catwalk overlooking a long passageway through Zakera’s upper level. The neon lights of a bar glint up through the grating and there is the gentle sound of conversation and muffled music from below them.

“Kolyat,” Krios says softly. “You remember this place?”

The young drell speaks for the first time, coming to a halt at Kaidan’s elbow. “Yes,” he says. His voice is higher than Krios’s, and yet more harshly resonant. He doesn’t sound pleased about their choice of stopping point, but he makes no complaint.

“Good,” answers Krios. “Keep watch, if you would.”

Kaidan raises his eyebrows. “Are we not supposed to be up here?”

Krios shrugs. “Perhaps not. At any rate I would prefer we not be disturbed. You and I both have many enemies.” His lips curve in an abrupt, weary smile. “Many of them nearly as skilled as we are.” With a long breath out almost like a groan, he clambers onto a nearby crate and sits down, back straight, legs crossed, dark eyes reflecting the lights of the corridor underneath him. “Sit, please.”

Kaidan considers refusing, but his legs are aching with the exertion of their walk and in the end he sort of topples rather than sits, his rear end thudding into the hard metal of another box. Kolyat grabs the railing of a higher catwalk and, with a movement smooth as liquid, swings up into a crouching position above them within earshot, his legs dangling loosely in the dim air.

For a little while the three of them sit in silence. Faces pass below them, a few occasionally looking up with curiosity at the three still figures in patient observation. Kaidan looks at Krios expectantly; the drell has drawn into himself, as if formulating his words carefully.

“I was here last some months ago. With Shepard,” he finally comments meditatively. “I had not truly hoped she would help me, with so many other tasks upon her. And yet she did. We came to the Citadel and saved my son.”

Kaidan narrows his eyes, puzzled, then tilts his head back to look up at Kolyat curiously. The young drell studiously ignores his gaze. “From what?”

“Becoming me,” Krios answers, with grim irony. “He had fallen in with a crowd that was willing to give him assassination contracts on the power of my name alone. He was not bred to the work as I was; I had hoped he might escape it altogether.” He shifts, his firm posture slipping, sagging back to lean against another crate behind him. “Shepard listened when I told her of my son’s danger. She came here, helped me track him and his target. In the end she shot his mark for him, to save Kolyat the guilt that might follow him all his life.”

Kaidan has never heard any of this -- not in the intel, not in the rumors. “Who was the mark?”

“Joram Talid.”

“Holy shit...” Yes, he remembers _that._ He had been on the Citadel soon after Talid’s murder; it had been the second of two turian murders in relatively safe areas, one right after the other, and had much of the Wards in a panic, but to his knowledge nothing further ever came of it, and no one was ever charged. “That was Shepard?”

“I do not know how she bore all the burdens we placed upon her,” Krios says slowly, as if he has not heard Kaidan speak at all. “Each of us...the whole recruited team...had in the end some demon which needed slaying, and she made sure we were all at peace before the final push. I never once heard her complain when we asked anything of her. She is the hardest woman I have ever met; if crossed in her purpose she is quick, decisive...lethal. And yet she cares for her crew as a sacred trust. The unique genius of those born to lead.”

Kaidan feels the sudden stirring of memories long buried. Late nights in the Normandy mess...Shepard would often find him tinkering with some piece of equipment or other, pull him aside to ask for his thoughts on the crew. They’d end up talking for hours, late into the wee hours of the night watch. She’d listened attentively as he’d spoken of his time at BAaT, Vyrnnus...and Rahna... He remembers being so surprised that she would add his worries to her own, which already threatened to swamp her. It had been one of the things that made him love her, and made him long for her love in return. “She’s always been like that,” he says quietly.

Krios gives him a sideways look. "She has healed your wounds also, Sere Alenko?" he asks, sounding almost sympathetic.

Kaidan shrugs, feeling awkward under the scrutiny. "Healed, yeah. And gave me some, too.”

“ _It is a hard thing to love one who is wedded to great purpose,_ ” quotes Krios soberly. “A drell proverb -- one that I think was written for such as you and I.” 

Kaidan frowns, looking down at his hands, which are balled into fists with growing tension. His throat feels tight suddenly. _You don’t know me, or what I had with her,_ he thinks with frustration, all the more acute because he has a feeling that Krios _does_ know, that the drell actually understands Kaidan a good bit better than Kaidan understands him.

After a while, receiving no response, Krios goes on, “I think you have misapprehended my purpose in speaking to you, sere. I am neither your rival nor a wounded heart looking for your commiseration. Any hold I might still have on her, or she on me, will soon be broken.”

“Why?” Kaidan asks, eyes narrowed in bewilderment.

“I am dying,” Krios says simply. "Day by day my lungs are slowly failing me."

Kaidan blinks, thrown. “Oh,” is all he can think of to say, and he shifts awkwardly on his crate, realizing absently that his legs are growing stiff in their braces. _That nurse did say he was a “permanent resident”..._  “I, uh...I’m sorry.”

“You need not be,” Krios replies briskly, steepling his hands contemplatively and looking over the tips of his fingers at Kaidan. “If I am to be wholly honest, I care little of your opinion of me or my condition. If you spit on my grave, I will not be here to see it, and perhaps you have good reason." He pauses, leans forward and meets Kaidan's eyes intently, his black gaze burning like kindled coal. "But I bear you no ill will. And I wish to relieve you of yours towards her, if I can. There are few others left to whom I can be of service."

“She had ill will for me before I had it for her,” Kaidan says with a sharp scowl. “She turned her back on me. On everything we stood for.” With a groan, he hoists himself to his feet, his legs tingling with muscle strain as he rounds on Krios. “Look, what do you want from me?”

“Your understanding, nothing more,” Krios answers. Oddly enough, Kaidan’s last few sentences have elicited a smile from him, as if he suddenly sees a path through this conversation that he hadn’t seen before. “You mistake her gravely if you believe she abandoned you, or your principles."

He looks up at Kaidan thoughtfully for a moment, then stands as well -- and now that he is looking for it, Kaidan can see the weakness in him, the slight unbalance, the flex of slowly numbing fingers. Above them, Kolyat leans forward slightly, his weight shifting, ready to leap down at a moment’s need.

Krios leans against the catwalk railing, draws a harsh, slow breath, and steadies himself. “I did not remember where I had heard your name, at first,” he says slowly. “And if you know anything of drells, you know that it is a hard thing for us to forget anything, even if we might wish to. It requires...special effort.” He turns his head slightly at an angle, drifting even as Kaidan watches him into deep memory. “I remember now, though...”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This whole conversation was originally just going to be one chapter, but the more I thought about it, the more I really wanted to write Thane's flashback in good detail. So that will be next chapter, and then probably one more after that. The boys have a lot to talk about. :P
> 
> Thanks as always for reading and any suggestions! :)


	5. Remembrance of Things Past

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thane remembers what he has heard of Shepard and Alenko, in a few moments from his time on the Normandy.

_The Normandy is chilly and hums with power. Thane finds himself fascinated with the high ceilings, the smooth elegance of the bulkhead contours. His travels as an assassin have most often put him in rather squalid shipboard accommodations, as a beat-up freighter draws infinitely less attention than a luxury cruiser. And he has never, that he can recall -- and he recalls everything -- been aboard a human vessel._

_This is of course not an Alliance ship, but Cerberus, which begs a number of questions that would not otherwise be on the table. As such, he steps off the elevator on the crew deck with a certain wariness; he does not feel unsafe, precisely, but certainly skeptical of the motives of those around him. He trusts the Commander; there was a straightforwardness about her recruitment offer that would be hard to feign, and had she wished him harm she could have offered it in spades by now. But the others..._

_It is a motley crew, to be sure. And he will watch his back._

_He rounds the elevator and enters the mess hall -- and stops abruptly as he realizes he is not alone. Much of Shepard’s elite team thus far collected is sitting around a small spread of food and drink, though none of them look particularly cheerful about it._

_Vakarian and Taylor, the turian and human soldiers who were with Shepard at the Dantius towers, are both here and looking rather grim. So are two other humans, both female. One, tall and clothed in black and white, has the unmistakable sober attentiveness of an intelligence agent; Thane remembers Shepard introducing her as Lawson. The other woman, heavily tattooed and only half-dressed, is fidgeting restlessly as if debating whether to eat from the plate in front of her or throw it. The far side of the table is dominated by the hulking form of a beady-eyed young krogan, who is shoveling everything within reach into himself and saying little._

_The only one who seems to be at all enjoying himself is the white-coated salarian, who is humming distractedly to himself while examining a piece of the turian’s dextro steak._

_“If Shepard is unstable, it’s important for the mission that we determine it immediately,” says the Cerberus agent, seemingly following on from a part of the conversation Thane missed. “We can’t afford for her personal concerns to interfere--”_

_“Shepard is not unstable,” answers the turian with tired patience. “She’s just had a bit of a shock, that’s all. She’s seen worse. We all have. Anyway--”_

_“Company!” announces the tattooed woman out of nowhere, turning in her seat to face Thane and giving him an up and down look mistrustfully. “Who’s the new boy?”_

_The group falls silent and, as one, turns to look at Thane where he is standing in the dimness outside the wash of the main mess lights. He hooks his hands behind his back, meets their eyes each in turn, gauging them. "I am Thane Krios."_

_Their responses are, as Thane will later learn, eminently characteristic. Taylor and Vakarian, obviously, are unsurprised but guarded -- they know who he is already but not what to expect of him. Lawson, too, has already encountered him, and so squares around and eyes him appraisingly without a flicker of fear. The krogan grunts disinterestedly and readdresses himself to what seems to be a whole raw bird on the plate in front of him.  The salarian looks up at him with curiosity, and then stands and begins circling Thane to observe him from every angle. And the tattooed one lounges back in her seat and gives him a cold smirk._

_"You can call me Jack. We're all killers around this table, Krios. No need to be shy." She puts booted feet up on the table and grabs the bottle nearest at hand. "What d'you drink? Beer? Vodka? Or you need some of the turian's dextro crap?"_

_Without warning she hurls the bottle in Thane's direction. Thane snatches it out of the air without blinking, steps into the light, and sets it on the table. "I do not take alcohol. Thank you."_

_"No shit, black-eyes?" Jack returns, evidently bemused by this approach to life. "You're missin' out. Only thing worth coming out of the underdecks for." She turns away, seemingly having shed all interest in him, though Thane can sense the acuteness of her continued attention to the unknown quantity he represents._

_"I heard you talking," he comments, to break the resulting silence. "The Commander is unwell?"_

_"She's fine," Vakarian answers sharply. "She had a bit of a surprise just before you got here--"_

_"Her old lay told her to screw off," Jack announces gleefully._

_"--and she's not taking it very well," the turian continues pointedly,  eyeing Jack with distaste. "She's been keeping to herself since."_

_Lawson huffs. "We didn't bring her back to life so she could wallow in personal problems. We have a mission."_

_"Miranda, give the Commander a break," comments Taylor, speaking up for the first time. "She has her shit together. You get put down by someone you love, and it stings."_

_Lawson looks unaccountably sheepish at this argument and backs down angrily._

_"And she loved Alenko," Vakarian continues thoughtfully. "I've known her a long time and I know she's never had an eye for anyone else. He was a good kid. He was her anchor. Without him..."_

_"She gets angry," puts in the krogan, blunt and gravelly. "Angry is good. Angry makes you hit hard and leave a mark."_

_"Or makes you miss because you're thinking about something else," murmurs Lawson._

_"Interpersonal dissension counterproductive,"  the salarian states matter-of-factly from behind Thane. "Shepard's authority absolute; nature of mission necessitates it. Disruption of team morale..." Stepping back into the light, he gives Lawson a pointed look. "...inadvisable."_

_"I'm just doing my job," Lawson answers, though not very forcefully._

_Thane clears his throat gently, drawing eyes back to him. “This...Alenko,” he says, carefully parsing the conversation thus far. “He and the Commander were once...close?”_

_“More than close,” Vakarian answers with a shrug. “I think she was hoping he might join up with us once he knew where she was. But he only knows Cerberus as an enemy.” His mandibles twitch in a faint, sardonic smile. “So did I when I was recruited, of course. But I’m not a young idealist anymore.”_

_“Neither is Shepard,” says Taylor, with a thoughtful cock of the head. “Hell, none of us are, or we wouldn’t be here. Maybe that’s why she wanted him around. Balance out all us old hardened types."_

_Jack smirks into her drink. “Or maybe she just needs someone who can give her a good--”_

_“_ Anyway _, it doesn’t matter now,” Vakarian says sharply before she can finish the thought, rolling his eyes. “We have to trust her to get the job done.”_

_“You really think she’ll forget him?” asks Lawson skeptically._

_Vakarian shakes his head. “Forget him? No. She’s talked to me about him once or twice; he’s a part of her now, part of how she thinks and decides and acts. But she’ll put him to the back of her mind. She’s too good a soldier to let it all go for a bad memory -- and she knows Kaidan wouldn’t have wanted her to.”_

_Clearly the turian has experience with the Commander, because his words are accepted more or less as gospel. Even Lawson seems appeased, for the time being. “We’ll see,” is all she says before turning and stalking off in the direction of her office. Taylor shifts awkwardly, then follows her. Silence falls again over the mess hall, broken only by the sound of bones crunching in the krogan’s teeth._

_Thane, for his part, is thinking over what he has heard. Shepard gives off such a veneer of capable unflappability that it is surprising to hear she might be grieving. Thane knows grief like an old friend, and would not have the slightest faith in his ability to command others while in its grip. Indeed, after Irikah’s death he had surrendered even command over himself into the hands of those who needed his skills._

_But Shepard fights on, a strong mind and a strong body, perfectly harmonized. A thing of beauty, in the lonely, disconnected drell’s eyes._

_“I must retire,” he says abruptly, startling himself with how loud his voice seems in the sudden hush. “This day has been...far longer than I anticipated,” he adds a little dryly, noting with some pleasure the slight amused smile this elicits from the turian. Clearly Vakarian is the approachable one of the group. “If one of you might be kind enough to point me in the direction of my quarters...”_

_The krogan grunts without a lot of enthusiasm. Jack ignores him utterly. Vakarian stands, leaning his clawed hands on the table in front of him. “Where does Shepard have you staying?”_

_Thane opens his mouth to reply, but the salarian gets there first. “Drell native to arid climate; if spiritually inclined, will also require relative quiet for meditation. One area of Normandy maintained at lower humidity levels due to proximity to atmospheric processing; also quite warm and acoustically insulated -- life support control center.” His lips curl up in a satisfied smile as Thane inclines his head slightly, indicating the guess is correct. “Should be ideal. Follow me.”_

_He bustles off into the corridor. Thane gives Vakarian a bemused look, but the turian just chuckles, shrugs, and sits back down, taking a large bite of steak. Thane follows the salarian out._

* * *

 

_“Your attention to detail is impressive,” Thane comments as the two of them walk down the hallway._

_“Have to be -- both as scientist and as special agent. Observational skill sometimes difference between life and death,” the salarian says cheerfully. He’s introduced himself as Mordin Solus, a name that resonates slightly with Thane in a memory wrapped up in the hot, sour smell of Omega’s underbelly. A doctor and a killer by turns, he is given to understand, a combination which commands some respect._

_“Have also observed more than I mentioned,” Solus continues, his large eyes giving Thane a sideways look. “Paler-than-average skin tone for stage of life, distinct shortness of breath even at rest. Indications of late-stage Kepral’s Syndrome.”_

_Thane can’t help a rough laugh. “It is good that I was already aware of it, or I might question your bluntness in delivering the news.”  He raises his hands in a shrug, shaking his head. "However, I do know of it, and so can only confirm your hypothesis, and thank you for your discretion in not mentioning it publicly."_

_Solus sniffs thoughtfully. "Consider doctor/patient confidentiality sacred -- even when not, strictly speaking, my patient." He stops at one of the heavy doors lining the corridor and triggers it open. "Will not mention before crew unless already introduced to general knowledge. Will, however, recommended speaking with Dr. Chakwas; no benefit gained from crew physician ignorant of major issues among her charges.” He steps into the room, gesturing for Thane to follow him. “Also offer my own expertise. Alliance doctor quite skilled, but doubt she has extensive knowledge of drell physiology. Have interacted myself with salarian research group specifically studying Kepral’s. Went nowhere, unfortunately -- lack of funding. But happy to provide what insight I can.”_

_Thane lets the stream of words wash over him without quite attending to them, focused instead on looking around the room Solus has guided him to. It is small, utilitarian, lined with pipes and access ports; the low hum and whoosh of air filtration resonates through the walls. A small window at the far end overlooks the engine room some ten meters below. The air is warm and dry and tingles a little with static electricity. Yes, he thinks. This will do nicely. “I thank you,” he murmurs absently to Solus._

_“No thanks necessary. Have duty to the sick, duty to mission. Duty to those Shepard has deemed fit for it,” Solus lounges against the wall, letting Thane walk past him and sit down at the small table near the window._

_Thane looks back at the salarian over his shoulder. “It does not trouble you to have a dying man on a team with such a purpose?”_

_Solus smiles again, though it’s a harder expression this time. “Have spoken with Vakarian about your recruitment. If you are capable of such infiltration, can hardly suspect your physical abilities yet impaired. Besides...trust Shepard’s judgement.”_

_Thane nods slowly in silent gratitude, appreciating the vote of confidence from the strange, slim scientist whose eye seemed to miss nothing. “What do you know of the Commander?” he asks after a short pause. “What can you tell me of her.”_

_“Know nothing for certain. Only what I can determine by observation,” Solus says. “Would describe her as...driven. Intense. Practical. Has already as much as said she dislikes her -- our -- employers; sees them as means to an end, and therefore justified.”_

_“She does not consider herself Cerberus, then?” Thane asked, unashamedly curious, and really somewhat relieved to hear it. He has killed Cerberus officers before, and based on what he knows of them, he has hardly regretted it._

_“Mmm. Do not think so. Would have to ask her, of course. But her focus is Collectors, and their Reaper masters. Aims to destroy them above all else. Above her happiness or own personal safety.” Solus pauses, then chuckles sardonically. “Or ours, of course.”_

_Thane lets out a breath through his nose like a silent laugh. “Of course.”_

* * *

 

_“How is your breathing today, Thane?”_

_“Steady, I think,” Thane says after a considered, self-appraising silence. Dr. Chakwas nods approvingly, looking at the readouts displayed on the sensor console next to the medbay bed._

_“You are doing very well; your condition is not in remission but it is progressing at a much slower rate than most of the literature would indicate. Are you doing anything in particular to combat it?”_

I am letting the salarian work magic, _Thane thinks dryly. He is grateful that most of the time he simply has no idea what Dr. Solus is talking about when the scientist offers his ideas for ancillary treatment, as it means he is at no risk of accidentally betraying professional secrets. “I am well taken care of,” he answers equivocally, drawing a smile from the human physician._

_“That you are,” she answers, amused, as she starts to put her tools away. “Well, you can go, then, Sere. Shepard and the others will be back from Tuchanka soon and I’m sure you’ll want to be there for the debriefing.”_

_He certainly does. In fact, he’s been noticing that time spent apart from Shepard is increasingly undesirable, that he feels better in her presence than out of it, that it hurts him -- quietly and in a deep place he is hardly conscious of -- when she selects squadmates other than him for her biggest missions. He has not yet tried to put a name to the feelings, but they are there nevertheless. And he has no idea what to do about them._

_He slides off the bed and onto his feet, twisting his head to work the limberness back into his shoulders. “Thank you, doctor.” He pauses. “Before I go...might I ask you a question?”_

_“You might ask me as many as you like,” she answers pleasantly, crossing past him to her desk._

_He considers his approach carefully for a moment, then asks, “You know the Commander quite well, do you not?”_

_“I’ve known her longer than anyone else aboard, certainly,” she answers thoughtfully. “We first met when she was made second-in-command of the original Normandy, just before its mission to Eden Prime. I suppose you could say I’ve known her three years, though,” she adds dryly, “for a good portion of that, she was dead.”_

_Thane nods, trying to picture what Shepard must have been like before she had ever heard of the Reapers. “She has changed much since then, I imagine.”_

_Chakwas tilts her head consideringly. “In some ways, yes. She is harder, certainly. Older, perhaps wiser. But in many ways she is the same woman she always has been. She is just as purposeful, just as determined to do what must be done. Just as much a protector.” She purses her lips in a pensive, troubled expression. “Just as devoted to the Alliance, even if the Alliance does not believe it. She tore her own heart out the day she ‘betrayed’ them, in the letter of the law if not the spirit. I sometimes wonder if she’ll ever fully recover.”_

_Thane doesn’t like the sound of this much, though it dovetails with what Solus and the other team members have told him in the past. “She hides it well.”_

_“She does.” Chakwas smiles cynically. “She likes to pretend she has all the answers -- only she can’t fool some of us. I can convince her to let her hair down sometimes, but even with me it usually involves a bottle of alcohol.” She shrugs. “I honestly could not tell you exactly what goes on in her mind, much of the time.”_

_Thane grunts, acknowledging this, then moves on cautiously to the real purpose of his questioning. “Do you know if she is...attached?”_

_“To what?” Chakwas asks, a bit thrown by the question, then recovers hastily. “Oh. You mean-- no, I don’t believe so.” She lowers her voice slightly. “It’s not a question I’d necessarily recommend putting to her directly, though. It might stir...some bad memories.”_

_“Yes. I know about the man she met on Horizon,” Thane says, feeling oddly awkward even though he was the one to bring the subject up. “I just thought-- that is, I wondered-- Sere Vakarian--”_

_Chakwas raises an eyebrow at him, and then her expression widens with understanding. “Ahhh...” she says, leaning forward in her chair slightly so her elbows are resting on her knees, and smiles conspiratorially. “No. She and Garrus are just very good friends, at least so far as my knowledge goes. And as for...the man on Horizon...I would venture to guess she still feels very strongly for him, but there are a lot of burned bridges and many months between them now. From what I’ve heard, he made it clear to her they were a lost cause.”_

_“I see.” Why had he asked? He is dying. He can’t possibly hope that Shepard might have any interest in committing her emotions into the keeping of a man who will leave her just as abruptly as Alenko, though with fewer ideological fireworks. He cannot hope she will look to him as he increasingly looks to her -- as a symbol of hope and life and vitality in a world growing dark at the edges._

_He cannot possibly hope it. And yet he does._

* * *

 

_“Do you need something?” Thane asks softly, hearing the familiar footfalls behind him in the control room._

_“Have a few minutes to talk?” She always approaches him the same way, cautiously formal until she knows she is not interrupting him. Almost from the first, she recognized how important his meditation is to him, and has taken care not to impose herself on it; he loves her for it. And for everything else, of course._

_“Siha...I have all the time you ask of me,” he answers. He keeps his voice low; the tightness in his chest is stronger than usual today. “Please, join me.”_

_She sits, heavily and with a long sigh like a groan. “Thanks.”_

_“You are tired,” he says -- rather unnecessarily, for the exhaustion shines out her eyes like a beacon. Indeed, she looks less confident than he has ever seen her. The last twenty-four hours have shaken her to the core. She looks beaten. Broken._

_“Yeah,” she agrees. “That geth station was a hell of a thing. Wasn’t real sure we were going to make it out, at the end there. And then to come back to an empty ship...”_

_He tries to smile reassuringly. “We will find them, Shepard. You will bring us all home.”_

_“Maybe.” She shrugs, and the weary, doubtful apathy in her eyes frightens him. Tentatively he reaches out, takes her hand between his; she clutches at it convulsively almost without seeming to realize she is doing so. “We’ll find out for sure soon. There’s no more putting it off.”_

_“Perhaps it is better that way,” he says carefully. “Anticipation of a difficult task is sometimes worse than the task itself. It only allows you time to question your abilities. But know that I do not question them for a moment. And neither does anyone on this ship, or those officers in the Collectors’ grasp. We have all seen what you can do. I would trust you with my life.”_

_Her eyes squeeze tight at the corners and her throat shifts around a sharp swallow. “I’m tired of being trusted with people’s lives,” she whispers, looking down at his hands around hers. “All it’s ever brought me is loss...”_

_He shakes his head sharply. “You have saved many lives. What you did with the crew of the first Normandy...you saved how many millions at the battle of the Citadel? And your crew...they all survived.”_

_“But I lost them, all the same,” she says, blunt and hard and quiet. She blinks rapidly and looks away from him, her voice shaking with rising emotion and grief. “Had to come here, work with these people I wouldn’t lend a dollar to on the street. And then even they disappeared. This damn mission...this damn silent war...those damn machines. I’ve lost everything...”_

_He raises a hand, catches her chin with his fingers and turns her eyes towards him. “Siha...you have not lost me.”_

_She makes a low noise at the back of her throat, but doesn’t say the words he knows she is thinking._ She has not lost me...yet.But the day will come. _He cannot offer her even the illusion of undying devotion, only the comfort of a kindred soul, the soft welcoming yield of another’s skin against hers. His heart breaks for her solitude and he can think of nothing to say._

_“I’m glad you’re here,” she mutters, raising his hand in hers and leaning her forehead against it gently, her eyes closed. “It’s all that’s keeping me from going mad right now. Had to put up a front for Joker so he wouldn’t throw himself out the airlock.”_

_“He values your good opinion,” Thane says matter-of-factly. She nods without looking up._

_“I know.” After a short silence, she adds, “You know, some days I’d kill to meet someone who didn’t know my name. Someone who knew none of my choices, couldn’t judge me by ‘em. Couldn’t be disappointed or hero-struck. Someone who just...wouldn’t care.”_

_He finally manages a smile again, leans his head forward so he too is leaning against their intertwined hands. “I think it is impossible not to care for you, siha.”_

_She laughs softly, and the sound makes him feel a little better, but only for a moment because it is followed by a burst of cynicism so bitter it doesn’t even sound like her. “You’d be surprised at how many manage it.”_

_There is another long silence. Then she shifts, stands up abruptly and goes to look out the window and down at the heart of the Normandy. “I’m sorry, Thane. I’m just...at a low ebb tonight.”_

_He shakes his head. “You owe me no apologies. I have...I have much on my mind as well, but you have shared so much in my burdens that I can hardly begrudge you yours if you will share them with me. If you are lost in memory, tell me of it.”_

_She puts a hand to the glass of the window, leans heavily on it for a moment. “There’s nothing to tell, really,” she says shortly, though not harshly; he can see she’s touched by the offer even as she rejects it. To be honest, he never really expected her to answer him fully; in all the time they have talked, the subject has mostly been his past and his pain. She has kept her own counsel. “Just people I used to know, that I don’t know anymore. Most of them I don’t regret. A few...” She trails off, curls her flat hand into a fist. “A few I regret enough to make up for all the others.”_

_She turns abruptly towards him, her eyes searching his face intently, seeming to stare deep into his soul. “I lost them. I gained you. One or the other, it seems. Not both.” She seems to be talking to herself more than him, working through some irreconcilable problem twisting in her mind. “Dammit, Thane,” she says finally, looking up at him pleadingly. “I’m so tired.”_

_He stands, circles the table to move close to her, putting his arms fully around her for the first time and pulling her close against him. She takes a sharp breath in and molds herself against him instinctively, pressing her face into his shoulder. Through his chestplate he can feel her heart thudding heavily._

_“I know, siha,” he whispers into her hair. “Hold on. Be strong. It will all be over soon.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like this chapter is probably really different in tone than the rest of the story thus far, and somewhat tangential; hopefully it isn't too jarring a change. But damn, was it fun to write.
> 
> I actually had to stop myself from making the initial conversation in the mess really huge because I was having so much fun bouncing the characters off each other. I'm definitely going to have to write a separate story along these lines, kind of day-in-the-life stuff of the ME2 crew, because we don't see them interacting the way we do in ME3 and I feel like there's a lot of good scenes to be had there.
> 
> Anyway, the ultimate point of this was to show that Shepard never for a moment actually forgot Kaidan or what they had together; it's meant to be an extended eidetic memory flashback on that catwalk in Zakera Ward. Next chapter we get to see what Kaidan thinks about all of it.


	6. The Father and the Son

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kaidan receives the double wisdom of two drells, and is not sure what to think about it.

Krios seems to finish speaking as if he has simply run out of words. His voice trails off into silence and he sways heavily against the railing. 

Too late, Kaidan realizes the other man is falling; he puts out a hand to help but Kolyat has gotten there first. Swinging down from the rafters silently, the boy gets his hand under his father’s elbow and carefully lowers him back to sit on the crates. He gives Kaidan a dark look, almost accusatory -- as if this was somehow all the human’s fault.

Kaidan shrugs uncertainly. He’s heard of drell eidetic recollection before, but has never seen a man caught in the throes of it. At first he’d thought Krios was having a seizure of some sort, by the wide dilation of his nearly invisible black-on-black pupils, the pale white-green of his knuckles where they gripped the catwalk rail.

But it was not a seizure. It was _memory_ \-- memory in a pure form, undistilled by time or emotion or _what-might-have-been_. It poured out of Krios in fits and starts, like blood spurting from a wound, until he was drained dry of it, shuddering, empty. Perhaps this was once a routine experience for the assassin, but now Kaidan can see the true, bone-deep weakness in the dying man. He has spent himself utterly, both in body and in soul, in this reverie and now sits, chest heaving, shoulders hunched, regaining composure but slowly.

“You understand, I hope,” he finally rasps, his dark eyes lifting to meet Kaidan’s, “the purpose of this emotional self-flagellation.”

Kaidan raises and lowers one shoulder in a shrug. He is still absorbing all of what Krios has told him, the flashes and snatches of experience building up into a cohesive picture. The last image, the one on which Krios’s breath failed, has struck him most deeply -- Shepard worn down, broken. Afraid.

Kaidan’s mental picture of Shepard does not include her being afraid. 

“I’m sorry I wasn’t there for her,” he murmurs slowly, looking down and away from the drell’s eyes watching him.

Krios shakes his head. “No.” He tries to rise but Kolyat holds him by the shoulder, keeping him seated. “No,” he repeats, his voice tight but firm. “I do not tell you these things to burden you with guilt. You were where you had to be. As was she. As was I. I tell you these things to make you understand that. She never forgot you, or who she was. Only circumstance was to blame for your estrangement.”

_Circumstance_. Kaidan has to swallow a bitter laugh at that phrase. His whole life has been a path of surrendering to inevitable circumstance, from the moment he was born with eezo embedded in his brain. A path of watching friends die, and disappear, and having to go on without them. “Right. Of course,” he answers sardonically, rubbing a hand down his face. “Nobody’s fault.”

“Nobody’s fault,” Krios echoes, but his tone is serious.”We cannot change what has happened, only what we will do with the future left to us. You were with her on Mars. You were injured in her stead. She will return for you. And you must decide what you will do when she does.”

Kaidan swears under his breath and turns away, pacing stiff-legged down the catwalk. “What if I don’t know? Huh? All right? I’m not dancing around the subject because I’ve got some petty grudge. I just-- I can’t just pretend nothing happened. We can’t go back to the way things were.”

“It will not be the way things were.” This time Krios succeeds in standing in spite of Kolyat’s objections. “War changes all, and love not the least of it. But she will still be Shepard, and you still Alenko. And she will still need you, as a center, an anchor, as desert sand clings to the base of a rock in the wind.”

Kaidan frowns, looks sideways at the other man. “And what about you?”

“I? I will die,” Krios says simply. “Quietly, in bed. A surprising fate for a man who has lived by the knife. And yet...not unwelcome. We all desire peace, in the end. Even Shepard, though I doubt that she will get it.” His tone drops to a whisper, heavy with bitterness. “She above all would deserve it.”

Kaidan says nothing. All the words he might have expected to say in this moment feel somehow inadequate, because he does not know what to think. He had not realized until faced with Krios’s testimony how tightly he had been clinging to his anger at Shepard in order to avoid aching with the loss of her. But Krios -- this selfless, doomed son-of-a-bitch who had taken her from him -- is forcing him to open his eyes.

He had wanted to believe that Shepard had betrayed him, that she had turned her back on the Alliance, because it was easier, in the end, than acknowledging that neither of them had any control over their fates, or their hearts.

_It is a hard thing to love one who is wedded to great purpose._

“I do not ask you to give me an answer,” Krios says quietly. “Only to her do you owe answers. I am a proxy at best. But I do ask you to think. Consider what you want, before the question is put to you in earnest.” Straightening with deliberate dignity, the drell turns away, beginning the laborious climb to the catwalk exit.

“Why are you doing this?” Kaidan asks abruptly, staring at the silhouette of the other man’s back in the dimness. “Why are you doing this to yourself?” He pauses, then adds, more softly with a feeling almost like shame, “I wouldn’t have done this for you.”

“I know,” Krios says, halting but not turning around. “Because you would have hope, and battles left to fight. My time left is short. I could throw you from this catwalk, break your neck on the deck plating, and it would never bring her back to me. Jealousy serves me no purpose.”

Kaidan feels the hair on his neck prickle at the resonant intensity in the drell’s voice. “ _Would_ you kill me, then? If you weren’t dying?”

“No,” Krios says, and his tone is almost gentle. “I would not. I am not a killer out of hatred or fury; I send no souls across the sea lightly. I am an assassin, a tool, and my arm is hers. And I do not believe, even were you the enemy incarnate, that Shepard would ever wish your death.”

He disappears into the dark corridor.

* * *

Kaidan finds himself walking next to Kolyat this time, as they make their way slowly back up the station, level by level towards Huerta. The boy looks, if it were possible, even more serious than he did on the way down, but he says nothing for a long time. Eventually, when Krios has pulled ahead out of earshot, if not out of sight, he abruptly lays a hand on Kaidan’s arm.

“Sere,” he says quietly. “Did you know what he meant to speak to you about, before you came here?”

Kaidan shakes his head slowly. “No,” he says honestly. 

A short pause. Kolyat smiles wryly. “Neither did I,” he comments, and they go on again in silence for a while. “I knew Commander Shepard, but only very briefly,” he continues finally, his teeth pulling thoughtfully at his lower lip. “I knew her name only in passing, from newsvids I’d overheard. I thought she was a well-known mercenary. I thought my father had hired her to help him retrieve me. It seems...I thought the same as you, that the Alliance had gone out of her, and she lived for herself.”

_What is it with these drells?_ Kaidan wonders sardonically. _They all seem like they’re looking straight through you into your heart._ “It was a reasonable assumption,” he responds.

“It was, under the circumstances,” Kolyat agrees. “But it was wrong.” 

He raises a hand, runs it bumping along the ridges of the bulkhead, his voice slow and soft. “My father...I had not seen him for almost ten years, when I came to the Citadel. I was ready to follow in his footsteps, to kill and to care nothing for myself. They stopped me -- him and Shepard, I mean.”

“Yeah. Yeah, your old man told me all this already,” Kaidan says, just the slightest bit impatiently.

But Kolyat is not finished. “He did not tell you all. After Shepard killed the turian politician, she spoke to the C-Sec commander in this ward. She used her authority to keep me out of prison; she got me a job and a place to stay. And she asked after me. Every letter I received from my father was always accompanied by one from her. She inquired about my health, my progress, the work I was doing. My father encouraged me, but she kept me accountable, kept me honest. I would probably be dead now if not for her.”

He frowns, gives Kaidan a sideways look. “I did not know she had done the same for my father, until today. He has spoken little of her and always with an air of pain. The letters stopped around the same time he came to the Citadel; I assumed she had hurt him. But it was, instead, too much the opposite. She brought him...peace, I think. Or solace, which is almost the same thing.”

Kaidan lets out a long breath, squeezes his eyes shut. “She’s generous. Like I said...she always has been.”

“To those she feels responsible for, yes,” Kolyat agrees pensively. “I think she does not give to those she does not feel have earned it. Her good opinion is not easily given. I feel lucky to have it.”

“As do I,” Kaidan says quietly. _As did I,_ he should probably say. He wonders if he can claim to have anything like a good opinion from her now, given all the bridges he burned. But he can’t quite bring himself to make that point out loud yet, to admit that their estrangement may be his fault as much as hers. “When your father asks, you can tell him he made his point. I’ll think about what he said.”

“I don’t care if you do or not,” Kolyat says with a shrug. “You are your own man, and I don’t believe it would benefit Shepard to have you return to her because you felt _obligated._ Better to be alone.”

The odd carelessness of the statement jars him after the intensity of the past hour. “So what _is_ your point?”

“Merely this,” the boy answers. “That I understand, as my father does not, how your side of the story works. I know what it is to feel abandoned, and not understand the reason till long afterwards. My father left me behind to avenge my mother; I did not see him again for a decade. Shepard left you to fight an enemy you could not see and did not understand. We were both of us alone and saw no one to blame but the one who had left us behind.”

Kaidan doesn't answer for a long moment, and when he does, his voice seems to snag in his throat. "Yes."

"A hard place to stand, when the one you would turn to for healing is the one who inflicted the wound," the boy says thoughtfully. Kaidan is struck by how young and how old he suddenly seems, simultaneously. "You find you wish to hurt them back, with double the fury you might wish a true enemy -- once for the pain and twice for the betrayal."

Kaidan nods again slowly. "I guess I never thought things would fall apart the way they did. I never thought..." He pauses, feeling angry and embarrassed and sheepish all at once. "I never thought anything could be more important than she was to me."

"We would all like to have someone we believe comes before all others, and treats us the same," Kolyat agrees. "And yet we always find there are sacrifices to be made. Causes to pursue. Wars to be fought. Enemies to collude with against a greater enemy. My father..." He pauses, and Kaidan can see the angry flare of his nostrils in the dim light. "He fought those who killed his wife at the cost of abandoning his son. It was a sacrifice and one I thought I would never forgive him for."

He falls silent, and Kaidan supplies the question he is expecting. "But you did?"

"I did." The high rasp of Kolyat's voice twists tiredly. "And perhaps that is truly my point. There is not...there is not enough time..." He pauses, stumbling suddenly over his words, and stops to get his thoughts in order -- pausing even in his steps to lean on one hand against the bulkhead. 

Kaidan stops as well, and the boy turns to him intently. "I cannot bring back the years without him," Kolyat says, quiet and serious, choosing each word carefully as his eyes bore into Kaidan's. "Nor can I put off the day of his death. But...the galaxy is burning, Sere Alenko. I realized that the time for wallowing in anger was over. If I did not turn myself now to experience the future with him...it would be too late."

A long silence stretches, and then the young drell turns away. "I will not tell you how to feel, nor could I if I wished to. But for Shepard's sake...I hoped to warn you of the mistakes I could have made. Because we cannot know how much time is left."

He looks at Kaidan for a long moment until his dark, angry stare wrings a nod of understanding from the older man. Then he turns and walks away, following his father into the shadows.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ahhh...so sorry for how long this took to post. I've been caught up in the world of MERP and, while way too much fun for words, is taking up all my free time. :P This is also shorter than the previous chapters, I think, and more introspective; just enough to get the point across. I've got two more chapters planned, I think -- one of which should have some action in it, so stay tuned!
> 
> Constructive criticism appreciated as always!


	7. Mortal Coil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thane faces his final challenge as Cerberus shatters the Citadel's uneasy peace.

At first he thinks it is a part of his dream. Screams are nothing new to the work of his subconscious mind; they are a constant in the dreams of his kills, in the imaginings of Irikah’s death, in the memories of the Collector base and the Dantius towers. The souls he has sent across the sea, and the souls he has failed to save...they have all screamed.

But then reality breaks through and he is fully awake in an instant, for the screams are mechanical. Alarms. The sound of running footsteps thuds through the decking. Something is happening.

In a single smooth motion he is on his feet, shaking sleep off of him like a cloak, shrugging it back onto the bed behind him. The muscles of his arms and chest flex with sudden adrenaline. He triggers the door open and at once is knocked backwards as a human doctor races by him, heading in the direction of the atrium.

* * *

_A bolt-flash of memory...a thousand victims, each in their time and place, sprinting from him under the scope of his rifle...this is what terror looks like..._

* * *

He shakes himself, a single sharp jerk of his head. The _tu-fira_ has strengthened further as his remaining days have shortened. It overwhelms him without notice, unexpected. Inconvenient, too, and doubly so given the clear frisson of danger in the air. The doctors are moving like frightened animals scenting wood smoke on the wind. Whatever is happening, it holds no room for getting lost in reverie.

Another physician -- a salarian now -- nearly barrels into him, but his reflexes are quicker this time. Backpedaling with the force of the movement, he pivots, arresting the doctor's forward motion and jolting him into the bulkhead. The man yelps, a noise of surprise and fear.

"Breathe," Thane intones in a low voice, soothing despite the roughness of his movement. "Tell me what is happening."

"I...I don't know," the salarian gasps out. "There's been an attack. We've been asked to muster for triage and evacuation."

 _An attack? Here?_ "The Reapers?"

"No, it's--"

"Cerberus."

The third voice comes from the room to their left. Thane doesn't have to look to see who it came from. A deep scratch of suspicion claws in his stomach.

"How do you know that, Sere Alenko?" he asks coolly, not letting go of the squirming salarian doctor.

Alenko appears at the door of his room in full armor, a deep, metallic blue suit shining with polish and graced with the subtle insignia of not just the Alliance but the Spectres. Thane allows himself half a moment to grudgingly acknowledge that Shepard's trust and faith in this man is not misplaced. Freed of his leg braces and intent with sudden urgency, Alenko radiates capability.

"Irissa just commed me," the human soldier explains grimly. "Things have gone straight to hell. A strike team broke in near C-Sec headquarters and there are more cropping up all over the Wards. External communications are cut off." He lifts an assault rifle in one hand, checks the load and charge. “I’m going to the tower; I need to get the council out. The raiding team will be breaching the Presidum soon; security feeds suggest they’re moving fast.”

Thane’s large eyes drift shut for a moment. “Of course they are,” he murmurs. “For all their faults...they are highly skilled fighters  and do nothing by halves.” His gaze snaps open again, fixes on Alenko. His fingers loosen their grip on the doctor he is holding, who squirms away and bolts unheeded for the door at a solid run. “What can I do to assist?”

Alenko shifts uncertainly. “Are you well enough to--”

“I am well enough,” Thane says bluntly. “My lungs will serve as they are forced to. What can I do to assist, Sere? If what you say is true, there is no time to debate the question.”

Alenko sees the truth of this; he doesn’t like it but he has no room to argue. Thane can see the acceptance of that fact settle into the subtle lines of the man’s face. “Can you get to a comm tower?”

“Yes.” Thane does not hesitate. If this is what must be done, then he will do it.

“With direct access to the systems, you may be able to bypass the jamming and get a message out, at least short-range. Maybe you can alert some nearby ships, give us an element of surprise. A fighting chance.” Alenko nods at him, an unspoken thanks. “You’d better get moving. I’m not sure how long before--”

Everything explodes before he can finish his sentence.

* * *

_The rough scrape of leather on metal as he skids along Omega decking, cuffed by a biotic blast...the sharp jab of the rifle into his back as he leans to the wall of the Dantius towers...the ripple of the water as Irikah’s body slips below the surface...this is what pain feels like…_

* * *

His eyes snap open to the soft sting of water sprinkling from the ceiling. The rubble of what used to be Huerta’s long-term ward lies around him, piled in heaps and circled here and there by flame. His body aches and burns. His lungs, already straining from Kepral’s and the impact with the decking, suck in a mouthful of smoke and he gags, his body curling around an angry cough. For a brief, terrifying moment he feels separate from his body; his muscles rebel against his control and sag into the soot-strewn floor.

A human hand lightly slaps his cheek. _Alenko._ The man is crouched over him, looking worried. “All right?” His voice seems far away behind the ringing in Thane’s ears. “Come on. Sit up. Got to move you before they spot us.”

“They?” Thane mumbles blearily, allowing himself to be tugged into a standing position and limping at Alenko’s side into the shadows at the very rear of the ward. The movement clears his head a little, though his lungs and stomach still heave with the smoke around them. “Who--”

“Cerberus commandos,” Alenko answers roughly. He too is feeling the effects of the explosion and his voice grates slightly. “They dropped a bomb down one of the ventilation shafts to cover their entrance. They’ve breached the Presidium. We need to get out of here. Do you think you can walk?”

Thane tests the muscles of his legs experimentally, swaying a little until he finds his balance and rights himself. Then he nods, shifting his weight off of Alenko’s shoulders. As they move from the point of the explosion, finding an open side corridor and slipping off into an alleyway, he manages to obtain a few decent breaths of clean air and some of the dizzy pain recedes. “Yes.”

"All right," Alenko says with a nod. "If it were up to me, I'd tell you not to strain yourself further but--"

"I know what must be done, Sere," Thane answers softly. "You need not apologize." _There will be plenty of time for rest when the job is done. Infinite rest..._ Never has the idea seemed more appealing, but he refuses to slacken the rapid thud of his heart.

Alenko looks troubled but does not argue. "There's a comm tower three decks below us. You probably know better than I do how to get there without being seen. Any message you can get out will be better than nothing at all; Cerberus thinks they've got us by the balls because no one knows what's going on. If we can give them a surprise or two in return, maybe we have a shot."

"I will get the word out," Thane says gravely. "I will not fail you."

Alenko's piercing brown gaze searches Thane's cool black one. Thane wonders what is going through his mind in that moment, if he is remembering Thane's history with Ceberus, questioning his loyalties, wrestling with the cold coil of jealousy in his stomach and weighing it against the harsh realities of the situation. _If you only knew, Sere... If you only understood how little you have to fear from me..._

A fragment of a human piece of literature he once read, sharp and clear as every other memory of his life, drifts abruptly through his mind. _'Tis our fast intent to shake all cares and burdens from our age, conferring them on younger strengths while we, unburdened, crawl toward death..._

Perhaps Alenko senses, unconsciously, something of his thought process, for the human nods abruptly and turns without another moment's hesitation. "Go, then! Now!"

* * *

_The rank odor of burnt flesh in the hot wet heat of the Collector base...the processed, metallic air in his nostrils as he climbs the Ilium air ducts...the sweet-sour scent of sweat-dampened skin ...the acrid ozone of the stiff wind whipping along an airship's hull...this is what urgency smells like..._

* * *

"Anyone on this channel? Come on, god damn it, did I train a bunch of incompetents?"

Thane's head snaps up at the unexpected familiar voice. He has been cycling through frequencies on his omnitool as he has clambered laboriously through the wards underdecking; most have been jammed, and the rest are clogged by Cerberus reports, masked by code phrases and giddy with victory. But this tone is different. It is gravelly and harsh and energized with the power of desperation, and Thane is very glad to hear it. "Commander Bailey?"

"Eh? Who's that? Krios? Well, you're not one of my men, but you'll do," the Citadel security chief quips gruffly. His voice is tinny through the wrist comm. "Where are you?"

"Akeros Ward, deck two," Thane answers briskly. His lungs protest at the combination of physical exertion and speech, but he ignores the dizzy surge of pain.

Bailey understands immediately. "The comm tower?"

"Yes."

"Damn good thinking. I haven't been able to raise anyone who can get there yet. I'm pinned down outside the taxi pad near C-Sec headquarters or I'd join you. Bastards have locked down the office."

Thane knows he shouldn't ask the question on his mind, but the words slip from him before he can stop them. "And my son?"

"Huh? He's fine, last I heard. He was with the hanar group in Zakera when the attack hit; he's probably safer than either of us."

A surge of relief. The last concern falls from him and he is free to do what he must. "Good. Thank you."

"A pleasure," comes the sardonic response. "Closing this line before someone tracks it. Call me if you manage to get a message out."

The line clicks off and he is left alone with his thoughts again, and the occasional dull reverberation of explosions.

In the end he has to tap into the comm tower remotely. Cerberus has recognized its value and set up a small blockade; his abortive attempt to access it directly ends in the sharp slice of a thermal clip along his neck which he was slightly too slow to dodge. It bleeds freely as he retreats back up the lifts, finds his way into a Presidium storefront, and takes shelter behind a ransacked pile of merchandise. The owners have long since either run or been killed and thus have no further use for the space.

He waits, hardly breathing, until he’s sure he has not been followed, then relaxes enough to get his heart rate under control, stem the wet flow of blood along his shoulder, and try to get a handle on the situation. A full-on assault won’t work, that much is obvious -- but he has not spent years as an assassin for nothing. There is always a side route, a stealth approach, though most of the obvious choices are far beyond his physical capability now.

At this short distance, though, hacking is the simplest solution. He’s no specialist at it, not like Shepard was; she could take apart a console for credits and put it back together again without seeming to have to think about it. But he can manage this task.

_If he can shut out the pain…_

One channel on his omnitool he reserves for the intrastation communications -- Bailey, Alenko, perhaps Kolyat will all try to reach him there if they are still alive. The other channels he co-opts, combines, strengthens and binds to the Citadel’s usual emergency frequency, and flings them out in a wide net, a digital cry for help. It will not reach far. He can only hope it reaches far enough.

“This is Tannor Nuara aboard the Citadel,” he intones, “to any ships within range. We are under attack. Cerberus commandos have begun an invasion at key points in this station’s defenses. We require immediate assistance from any ships which can rend--” His lungs seize and he breaks off, coughing, a stabbing pain ricocheting through his chest. He kills his audio input, sucks in a labored breath. _Settle. Settle…_

A bit of the blood from his neck has pooled in a hot, wet puddle at the base of his spine. He shivers involuntarily at the ticklish sensation, and his numb fingers flex around the hilt of his rifle. He feels a sudden sense of foreboding, a dizzy chill out of proportion to his injury.

 _I am dying,_ he thinks matter-of-factly. Not from the cut of course; he’s had far worse in his time. But the physical strain of the last few hours is telling on him with far greater severity than he had expected. Somewhere between the smoke, the explosion, the running, the stress...somewhere his lungs gave up.

Even if Cerberus is routed, he will not last the night.

He processes the sting of fear that goes with the realization, allows it to pass through him, sets it aside. _There is no sense in fearing the inevitable. And no time for distraction now._

“This is Tannor Nuara,” he begins again raggedly, squeezing his eyes shut against the dizzy spin of the room. “Calling all ships within--”

“ _Hey! Yeah! This is Joker!”_

“Sere Moreau.” The knot between Thane’s shoulder blades unwinds just slightly at the static-saturated voice of the Normandy’s pilot. “It is good to hear a friendly voice.”

 _“Uh huh. Yeah, no kidding,”_  Moreau agrees sardonically.

Thane can hear the questions on the tip of the human man’s tongue, and races ahead of them. “Do you have Shepard aboard? I must speak to her, at once. The need is urgent.”

There is, of course, no reason he could not deliver the news to Moreau instead. But he allows himself this small moment of selfishness. He needs to hear her voice.

Whether Moreau understands these subtleties is anyone's guess, but he wastes no time in passing the message on. “ _Commander..."_ Thane hears him say, muffled as he goes off-mic. " _There’s a communication from Thane. He says it’s important. I think you’ll want to hear this.”_

A short pause, the rustle of almost inaudible footsteps. Then her voice.

_“Put him through.”_

* * *

_The crack of Shepard's gun against  the turian politician's head, saving his son from the gallows....the hum of the Normandy's engines as Shepard leads them free of the Collector base...the  babble of newsreel footage announcing Shepard's  escape from Earth...a thousand on a thousand sounds of rough laughter and soft gasps and order's given in the moment of last hope...Shepard..._

_Shepard..._

_This is what relief sounds like..._

* * *

He has never wished to hear her more, and his wish has been granted. _Is your voice to be the last I hear, Siha?_ he wonders. _I can accept that._

“Siha..." he whispers hoarsely. "The Citadel is under attack. Cerberus troops are everywhere and they’re in control of the docks.”

“ _Are you safe_?” she asks. Her concern is obvious; he wishes he had better news to give her.

“No," he says honestly, the comment underscored as he ducks his head to avoid the attention of a passing pair of invaders heading for the lift to the wards. "I had to evade their commandos at the hospital. I’m in a Presidium storefront.”

A short pause. _“Did Kaidan make it out?”_

Of course she would ask. It is _right_ that she should ask. She is Alenko’s now, not Thane’s, and yet the jealousy spins in his stomach, making him sway. “We got separated, he said he had to protect the council,” he says, and for a brief moment is thankful for the tightness in his lungs; it hides any possible quaver or hesitation in his voice. _Practical. Focused. There is no more time left for such things._ “I’m going to C-Sec headquarters.”

_“Why C-Sec headquarters?”_

Why indeed. Until this moment he has not realized it is part of his plan, but it’s as good a place as any to go. He has fulfilled his promise to Alenko, and staying here to bleed out or choke to death is no help to anyone. He must at least attempt to go where he can still be of use. “It’s been compromised, and C-Sec’s response depends on it. As long as Cerberus is holding the headquarters, they have the station.”

He can almost see her in that moment -- the sharp nod full of purpose, the set of her shoulders, the heel turn with glowing green-orange eyes narrowed intently. _“All right. Joker get us away from the docks and close to C-Sec HQ. We’ll deploy in the shuttle.”_

The line closes with a low beep. Thane sags wearily against the bulkhead, struggling with a deep gulp of air.

 _I will have to live a little longer, then,_ he thinks. _She did not say goodbye._

* * *

It’s Bailey who next comms him, not Shepard. Somewhere between his his hiding place and the wards access, the C-Sec commander patches Thane’s station channel into a new one and suddenly there is a conversation traveling with him through the corridors. For a brief, aching moment it feels like old times -- Shepard at the helm, himself at her right hand, facing the unknown, the violent, and the deadly. Bailey is a good man, but an afterthought.

The dialogue between the three of them is terse, stilted. His plan to meet Bailey at C-Sec HQ is almost immediately rendered moot by the fact that Shepard gets there first, but what she finds there is troubling enough to nevertheless necessitate an increase in pace. Esheel was not on the council tower when the attack began -- she was meeting with the C-Sec executor in his office and is likely surrounded by Cerberus operatives by now.

If she’s even still alive.

_“Thane...did you get all that?”_

“Yes,” he rasps. “I’m nearing the building but running is difficult. I’ll try to get to you.” He kills the comm before she can offer sympathy or regret. It will only distract him, and the stakes are rising every minute.

He enters the headquarters via one of the air ducts. Normally they’re deliberately sealed against this sort of thing -- it is, after all, one of the safest areas on the entire Presidium -- but with normal security systems down he is able to breach the outer bulkhead with ease. He has always enjoyed ducting for this sort of work. Cramped they may be, yes, but they are also rarely monitored, offer limited avenues for enemy ambush, and by nature can lead anywhere and everywhere in a facility if properly mapped. This system is no exception; within a few minutes he has almost matched Shepard’s pace upwards to the HQ’s upper level and the grand atrium outer office of Executor Pallin.

Somewhat amazingly for a man in his profession, Thane has never been here before; he wishes he could stop to enjoy the decor, which is wide and open and slanted with artificial sunlight. As it is, the air rattles with gunfire. Shepard is below him and to his right as he slips from the ducting onto the lighting catwalks; her gold-tinged armor flashes in the light as she pivots, clearing the room of the Cerberus centurions that patrol it like so many ants.

_That armor in Haestrom’s light...that armor dust-glazed on Tuchanka...that armor bloodstained in the Collector base...that armor piled in the corner of her quarters...that armor…_

Focus. His mind seems to spasm in his head and he nearly loses his balance off the catwalk.

By the time he recovers himself, Shepard has disappeared into the inner office. And it is in turning his head to follow her that he notices the movement.

It is quick, like the skittering of a mouse at the corner of his vision. He turns, trying to follow it, and it disappears again -- a humanoid shape, he can tell this time, cloaked in black and blending in against the shadows of the ceiling.

He draws his rifle in a smooth motion, pivots with it--

\--and comes face to face with a human man wearing cybernetic augments and a Cheshire Cat grin. “Come to play, Krios?” he asks, his tone mocking. “Got your second wind?” Before Thane can respond, the man drops like a stone to the floor below and lands soundlessly.

Thane’s eyes track him downwards and his lips curl downwards with dismay. He knows that face, that voice. Kai Leng is Cerberus’s teeth, one of the most famous assassins in the business -- and for good reason. He’s an utterly capable killer, tall, lean, muscular, and young. His skin prickles with biotics and he carries a lethal-looking katana. And his drop to the floor was not accidental. Councilor Esheel is down there, alone and unarmed.

 _Amonkira..._ Thane thinks with a sort of desperation, _would you not give me some easier foe in these last moments?_ He knows what must be done, and he does not shy from it. But he feels sick with exhaustion at the thought.

The inner office window explodes violently; clearly Shepard has seen the situation too. The human assassin responds quickly, places the councilor between himself and the commander. His hand glows blue, ready to strike.

“Don’t even think about it,” Shepard snaps. Thane circles warily above them on the catwalks as the two soldiers bandy sardonic words. Leng is smug, arrogant, coolly confident against Shepard’s barely banked fires. _Keep him talking, siha,_ Thane thinks, as intently as if she could somehow hear him across the space separating them. _Keep him talking. Don’t let him strike. I will only have one chance--_

“Three on one, pal,” the commander announces. Garrus and a human Thane doesn’t recognize have entered the room behind her, both of them with their guns trained on the Cerberus officer. “It’s over.”

Thane has gotten behind Leng by now, so he can’t see the smile that curls upwards across the assassin’s face as he replies. But he can imagine it, for the coldness in the words says volumes. “No. Now it’s fun.”

There will be no more words before attacking. Time is up. Giving himself no time to falter, Thane leaps from the catwalk, hits the ground with a dull thud that jolts up through his chest. As he straightens, he raises his pistol to Leng’s ear; he receives no opportunity to fire but was not expecting one, his first intention is the councilor’s safety. He is gratified to see that the feint works; Leng spins, one hand coming up to slap Thane’s arm aside, the other roundhousing at his jaw with dizzying speed.

Thane backpedals, abandons the pistol in favor of the practiced dance of the fistfight, those rhythms he repeated endlessly in the atrium of Huerta in what seems another life altogether. _Left...right...solar plexus...throat…_ Leng is quick to respond, and although Thane lands several blows, the Cerberus killer returns each of them with his own, sharp jabs to the drell’s jaw and ribcage culminating in a shoulder throw that leaves Thane sputtering as he rolls.

He gains his feet and turns in a single motion, pulling the pistol again, firing-- but Leng has disappeared. _Kalahira drown the one who invented personal cloaks!_ he swears mentally, and then Leng sizzles into being again almost at his elbow. Six more quick shots and then he drops the gun halfway through popping the heatsink as the katana slices just over his head.

The line between life and death is blurring. His heart thumps and though his breath sticks in his throat he seems almost to be operating without it, running on pure adrenaline and fury. Knee jab...roundhouse kick...and then a biotic blow that sends Leng flying across the decking. In the brief silence he hears Shepard take a sharp breath in. She thinks he’s won.

But Thane knows the truth. Each of his blows is a hair too slow, a fraction too late. This is a war of attrition, a distraction to ensure Esheel’s escape, nothing more.

_I am sorry, siha…_

Leng staggers to his feet, raises his blade. Thane meets his eyes squarely, mirrors his motion. _Do you see this, Cerberus dog?_ he asks silently. _Send me across the sea if you will. I have already won. You kill only a dying man, and I am not afraid._ He begins to run, though the motion tears at him; the two assassins charge each other like raging animals. Thane leaps forward-- for a moment he thinks he might actually have the upper hand by some miracle--

And then the katana pierces through him to the hilt and everything becomes a sea of pain.

_The burn wounds that covered him in the escape from the Collector base...the soul-deep cold in the wake of Irikah’s funeral...the suffocating solitude of the weeks after Shepard’s departure...the blade in his chest and out his back dripping blood over Leng’s hand as he stares down, disbelieving, uncomprehending...this is what death feels like…_

“Thane!” shouts Shepard, distantly, as if out of another world.

_“Thane,” she said. “Be alive with me tonight…”_

_I cannot, siha. I am sorry…Kalahira guide you..._

He doesn’t remember hitting the decking.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much to everyone for their patience on this chapter. Took me forever to get the rhythm going on it; action is hard to write! And sad action most of all. :( I'm so sorry, Thane...
> 
> This is *not* the last chapter; I have one more in mind from Kaidan's point of view.
> 
> Constructive criticism, as always, is appreciated. :) Thanks for reading!


	8. Epilogue: The Way Forward

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Thane and Kaidan share a brief moment before Kaidan puts in a new assignment request.

Kaidan’s legs feel strong and steady as he paces the hallway restlessly. His boot heels thud rhythmically into the decking, skirting the cracks and dents that still linger from the Cerberus attack. Huerta has recovered well and rapidly; like him, it has emerged from the ashes of near-destruction and fought back. Not for the first time, he feels a surge of respect and gratitude for the men and women who work here. They have made him whole again.

Krios has not been so lucky.

Councilor Esheel’s rescuer is slowly dying in one of the rear recovery rooms, adjacent to the one in which Kaidan recovered after Mars. Kaidan hasn’t seen Krios since the attack, but he knows what the doctors are saying. The Cerberus assassin put a katana blade through the drell’s chest. The transfusion from Kolyat was not enough.

Krios is about to die.

_It’s unfair,_ Kaidan thinks abruptly. The vehemence of the thought startles him.  He would not go so far as to say he likes Krios, but after the last few days, he can hardly do anything but respect the man. Kaidan has come close to dying on a number of occasions, but it is his profession and his duty; Krios, on the other hand, had no obligation whatsoever to throw himself in front of a Cerberus blade for a stranger. But he did, and he is dying by inches for it.

And Esheel survived not because of Kaidan, whose job as a Spectre demanded that he protect her, but because of a drell assassin who worked for Cerberus and loved Shepard when Kaidan could not.

_The world is completely upside down…_

Krios is awake, but does not immediately stir when Kaidan enters the sickroom. His deep black eyes stare beyond the ceiling with the intensity of meditation. His hands are folded across his chest in the attitude of a corpse prepared for burial. He looks serene. Kaidan wonders if he is afraid.

“Hello,” he says quietly, and Krios blinks, coming back to himself with a start.

“Major,” he replies. His voice, always gravelly, now rasps with a new note of pain. “I was not sure if I should expect to see you.”

Kaidan nods. There’s no accusation in the other man’s tone, just facts, the acknowledged understanding that Kaidan has had reservations. “Well, here I am,” he answers. A short pause. “How-- how are you feeling?”

“Weak and weakening,” answers Krios. Still that matter-of-fact tone. There is no self-pity in him. No regret. And yet Kaidan knows what it is to see death closing in the distance. He remembers the awful fear before Shepard’s choice at Virmire and when the seekers stung him on Horizon, the terror-pain when the mech slammed him into the shuttle on Mars.

Krios can’t be as calm as he looks. Can he?

“I came to thank you,” Kaidan says softly.

Krios stirs, grunts a sharp breath out. “For Esheel?”

“For everything. We-- I owe you a lot.” Kaidan frowns, looks down, gets his thoughts in order. “You didn’t have to do anything. Right from the beginning, you could have left everything alone. You could have ignored me, let me drift out of Shepard’s life and yours.”

“I could, yes,” Krios agrees gravely. His gaze watches Kaidan unblinkingly. “But I have not. And that is all there is to say.”

Kaidan feels a tightness in his throat that has nothing to do with any injury. He lifts one arm, puts his fingers to his forehead in a salute. And merc though he is, Krios clearly understands the sentiment. With evident difficulty he lifts one arm, lays it across his chest in a return gesture.

“You must fight for us both, Major. And for her. You understand me?”

Kaidan nods. He does understand. There is no more animosity left in him -- not for Krios, and not for Shepard. They have all suffered enough. Kolyat was right. The galaxy is burning and the flames are too high to feed them any further. “I will. And what you’ve done...I’ll make sure it wasn’t in vain.”

Krios smiles very slightly, the expression tugging his eyes a little further open. “I believe you. And I thank you.” His breath catches and he swallows a ragged, hacking cough. “It has been an honor to know you, Major Alenko. Perhaps we will meet again...when the sea rolls over us all…”

It’s a dismissal -- not a rude one but a dismissal nevertheless. Kaidan understands. They have both said what they needed to say. Besides, Shepard will no doubt be here soon, and Kaidan has no intention of being in the room when she arrives. He retreats, inclines his head in a half-bow, and disappears out the door.

* * *

_ “Major Alenko. How’s the Spectre rank fitting you?” _

Kaidan leans on the Spectre office QEC railing and smiles faintly. “It needs a little breaking in, Admiral. My first responsibility...didn’t exactly go as planned.”

Hackett’s staticky signal flickers slightly, then restabilizes in time to show that the older man has frowned. _“I heard about your standoff with Shepard, and the business with the drell. Messy all around.”_

“Very,” Kaidan agrees, running a hand down his face. “I...think it ended as well as we could expect. But...definitely messy.” He suddenly feels incredibly tired and wants nothing more than to lie down for several years. But there is more to do yet, more to resolve, and the restlessness in his heart would likely not let him sleep anyway. “I’m standing by for my next assignment, sir.”

Hackett grunts. _“We could use you any number of places; you can almost take your pick. You know the state of the war, Major. I expect you can determine where you’d be most useful.”_

Kaidan’s quiet for a while at that. Had he been asked this a few months back, before Mars, he would have answered unhesitatingly that he needed to find his spec ops squads, disappear back into the shrouded world of the biotics division. Or perhaps he would have gone to the Fifth Fleet, offered his skills as a tech sentinel to the Crucible. But now he feels a different pull. The war needs to be fought. His isolation needs to end. And Krios’s words linger in his mind.

_You must fight for us both, Major. And for her._

“I need to be on the front lines,” he says firmly, ignoring Hackett’s evident surprise. “I...was thinking I might rejoin the Normandy.”

That’s assuming she’ll have him, of course. He knows, now, how much their estrangement hurt her as well as him. She may turn her back on him, and he knows it. Hackett knows it too. “ _Are you sure, Major? Like I said, there’s plenty of places where your skills--”_

“Do you leave the choice up to Shepard, sir?” Kaidan asks abruptly.

Hackett stops, looks at him with glittering, intent eyes for a moment, then nods. “If she wants you aboard, I won’t turn down the request.”

“Then that’s where I’m going.” Kaidan gives a sharp nod, squeezes his fingers on the railing. “I’ll contact you as soon as I know more.”

_“Very well. Take care of yourself out there, Major.”_

“You too, sir.”

The line clicks off and Kaidan breathes out slowly, examining his own emotions for a while in silence. He finds, to his surprise, that he is afraid, but not of the war or even of death. He has looked death in the face and stared it down; it holds no more mystique for him. No...he is afraid of the second chance he’s been given -- at life, at friendship, at love perhaps. He is aware of the successes he has had in his life, but he is also acutely aware of the failings. He has let himself hide behind anger, behind regret.

No more. Krios made his point and Kaidan can’t ignore it. If Shepard will take him back -- onto the ship, into her heart -- he will go willingly. And he will not shackle himself to the past while there is still a future to fight for.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, hey, the final chapter! :) For such a short thing this took me forever to finally get to, so thanks to everyone for their patience. I'm going to start writing more long fics again in the ME and DA universes, and am definitely up for suggestions if anyone has any requests. Thanks so much to everyone who read this and offered feedback; you all are awesome!


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